




>r-,* 






^'vt/ 



. . . . . ^"1 V 







Class. 
Book- 



P O E 31 S 



AND 



PROSE WRITINGS 







«»^ 



^• ^•. 



1^^'^- 



Entered according to act of Congress, in the year 1833, 

By Russell, Odiorne, and Co. 

In the Clerk's Office of the Dutrict Court of the Di:9trict of Miissachusetts. 



U. 



J. D. FrKKMAIV, rRI?(TCU. 



^^SzT^i -^^wv 




POEMS 



A^D 



PROSE WRITIN G S 



BT 



RICHARD H. DANA. 



PHILADELPHIA, 
MARSHALL, CLARK, AND CO. 



BOSTON. 
KrSSELL, OniORNE, AND CO. 



^y 



1833. 



(U^^vV^o2 



.A' 

■ ---^ 



C O N T E N T S . 



POEMS. 

Page. 

The IJuccanoor I 

The Chaiiiri's of Homo 'X\ 

Factilioiis Lilr '*{) 

Thoiiirhts (»n the Soul ^7 

Th(? Iliishaiids and Wife's Grave UH) 

The Dyiiiir Haven lOo 

Frajrinrnl <»f an Kpistle 110 

Tlie Pleasure Boat. I IT* 

The Karlv Sprinir Brook II'J 

•• The C'hantin<r Cherul>s.' 1*^5 

The Moss supplieateth for the i*oet \*27 

A Clump of Daisies IIU 

Chantreys Washinirton i:« 

The Little Beach-Bird KUi 

Dayhreak V3S 

PROSE WRITINGS. 

The Writer of the Idle Man to his Old Friends. ... 145 

Tom Thornton l.'il 

Edward and Mary "itil 

Paul Felton :>7l 

The Son 1^78 

A Letter from Town :\\H) 

Musin<rs 4(>2 

A Letter from Town -ill 

Kean's Actin<r 409 

Domestic Life 138 

Notes iV,) 



INTRODUCTION TO THE POEMS. 



« Although the additions here made to the first edition 
of the Poems are considerable, yet being in their poetical 
characteristics essentially the same, I will stop to make 
only a remark or two upon the principal of them — "Fac- 
titious Life." * 

Looking at the more serious cast of thought which it 
gradually takes, and particularly, at the religious character 
of the close, some may think it would have been more 
self-consistent, had there been less of a light manner and 
homely familiarity in the setting out. 

It would hardly have been more natural, however; for, 
open our eyes where we may, they soon full on the homely 
or trifling; and as I did not aim at fonn, but simply at 
following on after Life, making some passing observations, 
and such reflections as might flow from them, if tried by 
tliese, the poem will be found, I believe, in agreement with 
Uie coui'se of life, and congruous with itself. 

The objection of others may lie against the close, as of 
too serious a character to grow natiually out of the rest; 
for I am aware of the influence that the habitual course of 
our feelings and associations has over the perceptions; 
and that the thoughts of men are too apt to run (contrary 
to the course of them in this poem) from the serious to 
the light: I am soiTy for it. 

In fuie, there is, I trust, no want of congruity in a re- 
fiocting mind, if, having fii-st chanced upon the trifling, it 
falls gradually into the serious, and at last rests in that 
which should be the home of all our thoughts, the religioub. 



♦ ^e note, p. 450. 



VI INTRODUCTION TO THE POEMS. 

The alterations now niade in the poems of tlie first 
edition are of too minute a kind to deserve particular men- 
lion. Some of them were introduced in c ns^ecjuence of 
remarks which I occasionally met with in the public 
notices. Nor have I distinguished between those which 
were made in a friendly and those made in a detracting 
spirit. Not to avail one's self of the suggestions of a friend 
argues a wilful pertinacity, and to refuse to gather good 
out of the censoriousness of an enemy savours of folly. 

Though it ill becomes an honest man to bestow public 
commendation through mere personal partiality, yet fairly- 
intentioned public pmise aflects him who receives it, like 
an act of personal kindness and regard. AVithin the ftnv 
last yeai-s I have had cause to feel this deeply ; and with- 
out affecting humility, let me add, that if attended with any 
|Miin, it has b^en from that feeling of unworthiness which 
commendation oftentimes occasions. 



PREFACE 

TO THE FIRST EDITION OK THE I'OE.MS. 



It is not witJioiit liesitation that 1 give this sninll volume 
to the puhhc ; for no one can he more sensihh> than I am 
how much is ret|uiret! to the prochiction of what may be 
rightly ealleil poetry. It is true that somethin*: resemhUng 
it is ottentimes home into instant ami turhulent popularity, 
while a work of *jenuine eharacter may he lying neglected 
by all exeepi the poets. ]Uit the tide of time Hows on, and 
the former begins to settle to the bottom, while the latter 
rises slowly and steadily to the surface, and goes forward, 
for a spirit is in it. 

It is a poor ambition to be anxious after the distinction 
of a day in that which, if it be Ht to live at all, is to live for 
ages. It is wiser than all, so to love one's art, that its dis- 
tinctions shall be but secondary : and, indeed, he who is 
not so absorbed in it as to think of his fame only as one of 
its acci<lents, had better save himself his toil ; for the true 
power is not in him. Vet, the most self-depcmlent are 
stirretl to livelier action l>y the hope of fame ; and there are 
none who can go on with vigour, without the sympathy of 
some few minds which they respect. 

I will not say of my fn>t tale, as Miss Kdgeworth some- 
times does of licr improbabilities, "This is a fact;" but 
thus much I may say ; there are few facts so will vouched 
for, and few truths so fidly believed in, as the account 
upon which I have jiroundeti my story. 

I shall not name the island oti* our New England coast 
upon which these events happened, and these strange ap- 
pearances were seen ; for islanders are the most sensitive 
creatines in the world in all that relates to their places of 
abode. 



VIU » PREFACE TO TUT FIRST EDITION 

I have cliaii^'ctl the time of tlie action — wliieli was 
before the war of our revohitioii — to that of the great 
contest in Spain ; as the reatler will see, in my making use 
of tlie ehri.tian name of Lord Wellington in a way to 
allude to the popular helirf, during the early ages, in tlie 
return of King Arthur to the world.* — In jaiiting my hero 
on horsehaek, in not allowing him to die <|uietly in his 
bed, and, indeed, in whatever 1 thought might heighten 
the poetical effect of the tale, I have not hesitated to depart 
from the true account. Nor am 1 even certain that I have 
not run two stories into one; it bring many years since 
these wonderfid tvenis were told to me. I mention this, 
here, lest the islanders might br unnecessarily provoked at 
my departures from the real facts, w hen they come to read 
my tale, and tin? critics be put to the trouble of useless re- 
search in detecting Inisiates. 

Of the second story, 1 would only say, that having in it 
nothing of the marvellous, and being of a less active char- 
acter than the fust, I shall n(»t be <lisa]»pointed, though it 
should not he irenerally estimated according to its relative 
merit. 

Of the remaining piecrs, tlir fusi tour have appeared in 
the New-Vork Jirv rw ; and arr lure repuhlished with the 
consent of my frirnd Ibyant, the editor of fluit late work. 

On«' of these, '* Fr.igment <d* an I'IpistIr,'' is taken from 
a letter whirh I wrotr to amusr myscdf while rci'overing 
from a severe ilhM'ss. I must bf pardoned giving it as a 
fragment. The lines are murh more broken than is usual 
in the octo-syllahic vrrse ; tliough IMilton Iims taken great 
liberties in this respect in hi- txNo extpiisite little poems in 
the same measun». This he could have done neither 
through ignorance nor <*arrlessness. Loril IJyrfln has justly 
spoken of "the fatal facility *' of this measure; and Uv might 
as tridy luive remarked upon its fatal monotony, mdess 
varied in all possihie ways. So t'ar from ahrupt pauses 

♦ tfcc tint nute, p. 4VX 



or THE POEMS. IX 

not being allowable in it, there is scarcely a measure in the 
language which becomes so wearisome without them ; as 
every one must have experienced in reading Scott, not- 
withstanding his rapidity and spirit.* 

I am fully aware of the truth of Sir Walter Raleigh's 
remark in his admirable Preface to his llistorj' of the 
World: — "True it is that the judgments of all men are 
not agreeable ; nor (which is more strange) the atlection of 
anyone man stirred up alike with examples of like nature : 
But every one is touched most with that which most 
nearly seemeth to touch his own private ; or otherwise 
best suiteth with his a|>prehensiyn." — I therefore do not 
look to see all pleased ; — content if enough are gratified to 
encourage me to undertake something more than this small 
beginning; which is of size sutlicient, if it should fail to bo 
thought well of, and large enough to build fiu'ther upon, 
should it be liked. Let me enti, then, in the words of old 
Cowell: — "that which a man saith well, is not to be re- 
jected because he hath some erroi*s. No man, no book is 
void of imperfections. Ar»d, therefore, repreheiul who will 
in (iod's name, that is with sweetness and without re- 
proach." 



♦ See second note, p. 4 19. 






THE BUCCANEER. 



Boy with thy blac herd, 
I rede that thou blin, 
And sone set the to shrive, 
With sorrow of thi syn ; 
Ze met with the marchandes 
And made tham ful bare ; 
It es gude reason and right 
That ze evill misfare. 

Laurence Minot. 



The island lies nine leagues away. 

Along its solitary shore. 

Of craggy rock and sandy bay, 

No sound but ocean's roar. 
Save, where the bold, wild sea-bird makes her home, 
Her shrill cry coming through the sparkling foam. 

But when the light winds lie at rest. 

And on the glassy, heaving sea, 

The black duck, with her glossy breast, 

Sits swinging silently; 
How beautiful ! no ripples break the reach, 
And silvery waves go noiseless up the beach. 
1 



"Z THE BUCCANEER. 

And inland rests the green, warm dell; 

The brook comes tinkling down its side; 

From out the trees the sabbath bell 

Rings cheerful, far and wide, 
Mingling its sound with bleatings of the flocks. 
That feed about the vale among the rocks. 

Nor holy bell, nor pastoral bleat 

In former days within the vale; 

Flapped in the bay the pirate's sheet; 

Curses were on the gale; 
Rich goods lay on the sand, and murdered men; 
Pirate and wrecker kept their revels then. 

But calm, low voices, words of grace, 

Now slowly fall upon the ear; 

A quiet look is in each face, 

Subdued and holy fear: 
Each motion gentle ; all is kindly done — 
Come, listen, how from crime this isle was won. 



THE BUCCANEER. 



Twelve years are gone since Matthew Lee 
Held in this isle unquestioned sway ; 
A dark, low, brawny man was he; 
His law — '' It is my way/' 

Beneath his thick-set brows a sharp light broke 
From small grey eyes; his laugh a triumph spoke, 

II. 

Cruel of heart, and strong of arm, 

Loud in his sport, and keen for spoil, 

He little recked of good or harm, 

Fierce both in mirth and toil; 
Yet like a dog could fawn, if need there were; 
Speak mildly, when he would, or look in fear. 

III. 

Amid the uproar of the storm, 
And by the lightning's sharp, red glare. 
Were seen Lee's face and sturdy form; 
His axe glanced quick in air. 
Whose corpse at morn is floating in the sedge .^ 
There 's blood and hair, Mat, on thy axe's ed^e. 

IV. 

** Nay, ask him yonder; let him tell; 

I make the brute, not man, my mark. 

Who walks these cliffs, needs heed him well! 

Last night was fearful dark. 
Think ye the lashing waves will spare or feel.^ 
An ugly gash! — These rocks — they cut like steel." 



THE BUCCANEEH. 



V. 



He wiped his axe ; and turning round, 
Said with a cold and hardened smile, 
^'The hemp is saved — the man is drowned. 
Wilt let him float awhile ? 

Or give him Christian burial on the strand? 

He '11 find his fellows peaceful 'neath the sand." 

VI. 

Lee's waste was greater than his gain. 
'' I '11 try the merchant's trade," he thought, 
'' Though less the toil to kill, than feign, — 
Things sweeter robbed than bought. 
But, then, to circumvent them at their arts!" 
Ship manned, and spoils for cargo, Lee departs. 

VII. 

^T is fearful, on the broad-backed waves, 
To feel them shake, and hear them roar: 
Beneath, unsounded, dreadful caves; 
Around, no cheerful shore. 

Yet 'mid this solemn world what deeds are done! 

The curse goes up, the deadly sea-fight 's won; — 

vni. 

And wanton talk and laughter heard. 
Where speaks God's deep and awful voice. 
There 's awe from that lone ocean bird: 
Pray ye, when ye rejoice! 
**Leave prayers to priests," cries Lee : " I 'm ruler her6 ! 
These fellows know full well whom they should fear!*' 



THE BUCCANEER. I 

IX. 

The ship works hard; the seas run high; 
Their white tops, flashing through the night, 
Give to the eager, straining eye, 
A wild and shifting light. 
'' Hard at the pumps! — The leak is gaining fasti- 
Lighten the ship! — ^The devil rode that blast! " 

X. 

Ocean has swallowed for its food 

Spoils thou didst gain in murderous glee; 

Mat, could its waters wash out blood. 

It had been well for thee. 
Crime fits for crime. And no repentant tear 
Hast thou for sin ? — Then wait thine hour of fear. 

XI. 

The sea has like a plaything tossed 

That heavy hull the livelong night. 

The man of sin — he is not lost: 

Soft breaks the morning light. 
Torn spars and sails, — her cargo in the deep — 
The ship makes port with slow and laboring sweep. 

XII. 

Within a Spanish port she rides. 

Angry and soured, Lee walks her deck. 
'^ Then peaceful trade a curse betides? — 

And thou, good ship, a wreck! 
Ill luck in change! — Ho! cheer ye up, my men! 
Rigged, and at sea, we '11 to old work again! " 



THE BUCCANEER. 



XIII. 



A sound is in the Pyrenees! 

Whirling and dark, comes roaring down 

A tide, as of a thousand seas. 

Sweeping both cowl and crown. 
On field and vineyard, thick and red it stood. 
Spain's streets and palaces are wet with blood.— 

XIV. 

And wrath and terror shake the land; 

The peaks shine clear in watchfire lights; 

Soon comes the tread of that stout band — 

Bold Arthur and his knights. 
Awake ye. Merlin! Hear the shout from Spain! 
The spell is broke! — Arthur is come again! — 

XV. 

Too late for thee, thou young, fair bride; 

The lips are cold, the brow is pale. 

That thou didst kiss in love and pride ; 

He cannot hear thy wail. 
Whom thou didst lull with fondly murmured sound: 
His couch is cold and lonely in the ground. 

XVI. 

He fell for Spain — her Spain no more; 

For he was gone who made it dear; 

And she would seek some distant shore. 

At rest from strife and fear. 
And wait amid her sorrows till the day 
His voice of love should call her thence away. 



THE BUCCANEER. 



XVII. 



Lee feigned him grieved, and bowed him low. 

'Twould joy his heart could he but aid 

So good a lady in her woe, 

He meekly, smoothly said. 
With wealth and servants she is soon aboard, 
And that white steed she rode beside her lord. 

XVIII. 

The sun goes down upon the sea; 

The shadows gather round her home. 
'' How like a pall are ye to me! 

My home, how like a tomb! 
O! blow, ye flowers of Spain, above his head. — 
Ye will not blow o'er me when I am dead." 

XIX. 

And now the stars are burning bright; 
Yet still she 's looking toward the shore 
Beyond the waters black in night. 
*' I ne'er shall see thee more! 

Ye 're many, waves, yet lonely seems your flow; 

And I 'm alone — scarce know I where I go." 

XX. 

Sleep, sleep, thou sad one, on the sea! 

The wash of waters lulls thee now; 

His arm no more will pillow thee. 

Thy fingers on his brow. 
He is not near, to hush thee, or to save. 
The ground is his — the sea must be thy grave. 



THE BUCCANEER. 



XXI. 



The moon comes up; the night goes on. 

Why, in the shadow of the mast. 

Stands that dark, thoughtful man alone? 

Thy pledge, man; keep it fast! 
Bethink thee of her youth and sorrows, Lee; 
Helpless, alone — and, then, her trust in thee. 

XXII. 

When told the hardships thou, hadst borne, 

Her words to thee were like a charm. 

With uncheered grief her heart is worn; — 

Thou wilt not do her harm! 
He looks out on the sea that sleeps in light, 
And growls an oath — '' It is too still to-night! " 

XXIII. 

He sleeps; but dreams of massy gold. 

And heaps of pearl. He stretched his hands. 

He hears a voice — '' 111 man, withhold! " 

A pale one near him stands. 
Her breath comes deathly cold upon his cheek; 
Her touch is cold. — He wakes with piercing shriek. 

XXIV. 

He wakes; but no relentings wake 

Within his angry, restless soul. 
*' What, shall a dream Mat's purpose shake? 

The gold will make all whole. 
Thy merchant trade had nigh unmanned thee, lad? 
What, balk my chance because a woman's sad?'* 



THE BUCCANEER. 



XXV. 



He cannot look on her mild eye; 

Her patient words his spirit quell. 

Within that evil heart there lie 

The hates and fears of hell. 
His speech is short; he wears a surly brow. 
There 's none will hear her shriek. What fear ye now I 

XXVI. 

The workings of the soul ye fear; 
Te fear the power that goodness hath; 
Ye fear the Unseen One, ever near, 
Walking his ocean path. 
From out the silent void there comes a cry — 
^ Vengeance is mine ! Thou, murderer, too shalt die !" 

XXVII. * 

Not dread of ever-during woe, 

Nor the sea's awful solitude, 

Can make thee, wretch, thy crime forego^ 

Then, bloody hand, — to blood! 
The scud is driving wildly over head ; 
The stars burn dim; the ocean moans its dead, 

XXVIII. 

Moan for the living ; moan our sins, — 

The wrath of man, more fierce than thine. 

Hark! s(ill thy waves! — The work begins — 

Lee makes the deadly sign. 
The crew glide down like shadows. Eye and hand 
Speak fearful meanings through that silent band. 



10 THE BUCCANEER. 

XXIX. 

They 're gone. — The helmsman stands alone; 

And one leans idly o'er the bow. 

Still as a tomb the ship keeps on; 

Nor sound nor stirring now. 
Hush, hark! as from the centre of the deep — 
Shrieks — fiendish y ells ! They stab them in their sleep ! 

XXX. 

The scream of rage, the groan, the strife, 
The blow, the gasp, the horrid cry, 
The panting, throttled prayer for life. 
The dying's heaving sigh, 
The murderer's curse, the dead man's fixed, still glare. 
And fear's and death's cold sweat — they all are there! 

XXXI. 

On pale, dead men, on burning cheek. 
On quick, fierce eyes, brows hot and damp, 
On hands that with the warm blood reek, 
Shines the dim cabin lamp. 

Lee looked. '^ They sleep so sound," ha, laughing, 
said, 

'' They '11 scarcely wake for mistress or for maid." 

XXXII. 

A crash! They 've forced the door, — and then 

One long, long, shrill, and pierciag scream 

Comes thrilling through the growl of men. 

'Tis hers! — O God, redeem 

From worse than death thy suffering*, helpless child I 

That dreadful shriek again — sharp, sharp, and wild! 



THE BUCCANEER. 11 

XXXIII. 

It ceased. — With speed o' th' lightning's flash, 
A loose-robed form, with streaming hair, 
Shoots by. — A leap — a quick, short splash! 
'T is gone! — There's nothing there! 

The waves have swept away the bubbling tide. 

Bright-crested waves, how calmly on they ridel 

XXXIV. 

She 's sleeping in her silent cave, 
Nor hears the stern, loud roar above, 
Nor strife of man on land or wave. 
Young thing! her home of love 

She soon has reached! — Fair, unpolluted thing! 

They harmed her not! — Was dying suffering? 

XXXV. 

O, no! — To live when joy was dead; 

To go with one, lone, pining thought — 

To mournful love her being wed — 

Feeling what death had wrought; 
To live the child of woe, yet shed no tear, 
Bear kindness, and yet share no joy nor fear; 

XXXVI. 

To look on man, and deem it strange 
That he on things of earth should brood, 
When all its thronged and busy range 
To her was solitude — 
O this was bitterness! Death came and pressed 
Her wearied lids, and brought her sick heart rest. 



1% THE BUCCANEER. 



XXXVIT. 



Why look ye on each other so, 

And speak no word? — Ay, shake the head? 

She 's gone where ye can never go. 

What fear ye from the dead ? 
They tell no tales; and ye are all true men; 
But wash away that blood; then, home again! — 

XXXVIII. 

'T is on your souls; it will not out! 
Lee, why so lost? 'T is not like thee ! 
Come, where thy revel, oath, and shout? 
*' That pale one in the sea! — 
I mind not blood. — But she — I cannot tell! 
A spirit was 't? — it flashed like fires of hell! — 

XXXIX. 

'' And when it passed there was no tread! 
It leapt the deck. — Who heard the sound? 
I heard none! — Say, what was it fled? — 
Poor girl! — And is she drowned? — 
Went down these depths? How dark they look, and cold! 
She 's yonder! stop her! — Now! — there! — hold her, 
hold!" 

XL. 

They gazed upon his ghastly face. 
'' What ails thee, Lee; and why that glare? " 
'' Look! ha, 't is gone, and not a trace! 
No, no, she was not there! — 
Who of you said ye heaid her when she fell? 
'Twas strange ! — 1 '11 not be fooled ! — Will no one tell ?' ' 



THE BUCCANEER. 13 



XLI. 



He paused. And soon the wildness past. 

Then came the tingling flush of shame. 

Remorse and fear are gone as fast. 
'' The silly thing 's to blame 
To quit us so. 'T is plain she loved us not; 
Or she 'd have stayed awhile, and shared my cot." 

XLTI. 

And then the ribald laughed. The jest, 

Though old and foul, loud laughter drew; 

And fouler yet came from the rest 

Of that infernal crew. 
Note, heaven, their blasphemy, their broken trust! 
Lust panders murder — murder panders lust! 

XLIIT. 

Now slowly up they bring the dead 

From out that silent, dim-lit room. 

No prayer at their quick burial said; 

No friend to weep their doom. 
The hungry waves have seized them one by one; 
And, swallowing down their prey, go roaring on. 

XLIV. 

Cries Lee, '' We must not be betrayed. 
'Tis but to add another corse! 

Strange words, 't is said, an ass once brayed: 

I '11 never trust a horse! 
Out ! throw him on the waves alive ! He'll swim ; 
For once a horse shall ride; we all ride him." 



14 THE BUCCANEER. 

XLV. 

Such sound to mortal ear ne'er came 

As rang far o'er the waters wide. 

It shook with fear the stoutest frame : 

The horse is on the tide! 
As the waves leave, or lift him up, his cry 
Comes lower now, and now 't is near and high. 

XLVL 

And through the swifl wave's yesty crowa 
His scared eyes shoot a fiendish light, 
And fear seems wrath. He now sinks down. 
Now heaves again to sight. 
Then drifts away ; and through the night they hear 
Far off that dreadful cry. — But morn is near. 

XLVII. 

. O, had'st thou known what deeds were done, 
When thou wast shining far away, 
Would'st thou let fall, calm-coming sun. 
Thy warm and silent ray? 
The good are in their graves; thou canst not cheer 
Their dark, cold mansions: Sin alone is here. 

XLVIII. 

'^ The deed's complete! The gold is ours! 

There, wash away that bloody stain ! 

Pray who 'd refuse what fortune showers.^ 

Now, lads, we '11 lot our gain. 
Must fairly share, you know, what 's fairly got? 
A truly good night's work! Who says 'twas not?" 



THE BUCCANEER. 15 



XLIX. 



There 's song, and oath, and gaming deep, 

Hot words, and laughter, mad carouse; 

There 's nought of prayer, and little sleep; 

The devil keeps the house! 
*' Lee cheats ! '^ cried Jack. Lee struck him to the heart. 
*' That 's foul! " one muttered. — '' Fool! you take your 
part! — 

''The fewer heirs the richer, man! 

Hold forth thy palm, and keep thy prate! 

Our life, we read, is but a span. 

What matters, soon or late ? " 
And when on shore, and asked. Did many die? 
" Nearhalf my crew, poor lads! " he 'd say, and sigh. 

LI. 

Within our bay, one stormy night. 
The isle-men saw boats make for shore^ 
With here and there a dancing light, 
That flashed on man and oar. 

When hailed, the rowing stopt, and all was dark. 

'' Ha! lantern-work! — We '11 home! They Ve playing 
shark!" 

LII. 

Next day, at noon-time, toward the town,, 
All stared and wondered much to see. 
Mat and his men come strolling down. 
The boys shout, '' Here comes Lee! " 
* ' Thy ship, good Lee .? '* Not many leagues from shore 
Our ship by chance took fire." — They learnt no more. 



16 THE BUCCANEER. 

LIII. 

He and his crew were flush of gold. 
'' You did not lose your cargo, then? " 
'^ Learn where all 's fairly bought and sold, 
Heaven prospers those true men. 
Forsake your evil ways, as we forsook 
Our ways of sin, and honest courses took! 

LIV. 

'* Wouldst see my log-book? Fairly writ, 
With pen of steel, and ink of blood! 
How lightly doth the conscience sit! 
Learn, truth 's the only good." 
And thus, with flout, and cold and impious jeer 
He fled repentance, if he 'scaped not fear. 

LV. 

Remorse and fear he drowns in drink. 
'^Come, pass the bowl, my jolly crew! 

It thicks the blood to mope and think. 

Here's merry days, though few! " 
And then he quafls. — So riot reigns within; 
So brawl and laughter shake that house of sin. 

LVI. 

Mat lords it now throughout the isle. 

His hand falls heavier than 'before. 

All dread alike his frown or smile. 

None come within his door, 
Save those who dipped their hands inblood with him; 
Save those who laughed to see the white horse swim 



THE BUCCANEER. ~ 17 

LVII. 

'' To night's our anniversary; 

And, mind me, lads, we '11 have it kept 

With royal state and special glee! 

Better with those who slept 
Their sleep that night, had he be now, who slinks! 
And health and wealth to him who bravely drinks! '' 

LVIII. 

The words they speak, we may not speak. 

The tales they tell, we may not tell. 

Mere mortal man, forbear to seek 

The secrets of that hell! 
Their shouts grow loud : — 'T is near mid-hour of night : 
What means upon the waters that red light.'* 

LIX. 

Not bigger than a star it seems: 
And, now, 't is like the bloody moon: 
And, now, it shoots in hairy streams 
Its light! — 'T will reach us soon! 

A ship! and all on fire! — hull, yards, and mast! 

Her sheets are sheets of flame! — She'snearing fast! 

LX. 

And now she rides, upright and stilly 

Shedding a wild and lurid light 

Around the cove, on inland hill, • 

Waking the gloom of night. 
All breathes of terror! men, in dumb amaze^ 
Gaze on each other 'neath the horrid blaze. 



IS THE BUCCANEER. 

LXI. 

It scares the sea-birds from their nests; 

They dart and wheel with deaPning screams; 

Now dark, — and now their wings and breasts 

Flash back disastrous gleams. 
O, sin, what hast thou done on this fair earth? 
The world, O man, is wailing o'er thy birth. 

LXII. 

And what comes up above the wave. 
So ghastly white? — A spectral head! — 
A horse's head! — (May heaven save 
Those looking on the dead, — 
The waking dead!) There, on the sea, he stands — 
The Spectre-Horse ! — He moves ; he gains the sands ! 

LXIII. 

Onward he speeds. His ghostly sides 

Are streaming with a cold, blue light. 

Heaven keep the wits of him who rides 

The spectre-horse to-night ! 
His path is shining like a swift ship's wake; 
Before Lee's door he gleams like day's gray break. 

LXIV. 

The revel now is high within; 

It breaks upon the midnight air. 

They little think, mid mirth and din, 

What spirit waits them there. 
As if the sky became a voice, there spread 
A sound to appal the living, stir the dead. 



THE BUCCANEER. 19 

LXV. 

The spirit-steed sent up the neigh. 

It seemed the living trump of hell, 

Sounding to call the damned away. 

To join the host that fell. 
It rang along the vaulted sky : the shore 
Jarred hard, as when the thronging surges roar. 

LXVI. 

It rang in ears that knew the sound ; 

And hot, flushed cheeks are blanched with fear. 

And why does Lee look wildly round .'^ 

Thinks he the drowned horse near ? 
He drops his cup — his lips are stiff* with fright. 
Nay, sit thee down! It is thy banquet night. 

LXVII. 

'' I cannot sit. I needs must go: 

The spell is on my spirit now. 

I go to dread — I go to woe! '^ 

O, who so weak as thou. 
Strong man! — His hoofs upon the door-stone, see. 
The shadow stands ! — His eyes are on thee, Lee ! — 

LXVIII. 

Thy hair pricks up ! — '' O, I must bear 
His damp, cold breath ! It chills my frame 1 
His eyes — their near and dreadful glare 
Speak that I must not name! '^ 
Thou 'rt mad to mount that horse ! — *'A power within, 
I must obey — cries, ' Mount thee, man of sin !' " 



^0 THE BUCCANEER. 

LXIX. 

He's now upon the spectre's back, 

With rein of silk, and curb of gold. 

'Tis fearful speed ! — the rein is slack 

Within his senseless hold; 
Upborne by an unseen power, he onward rides, 
Yet touches not the shadow-beast he strides. 

LXX. 

He goes with speed; he goes with dread! 

And now they 're on the hanging steep! 

And, now ! the living and the dead, 

They '11 make the horrid leap ! 
The horse stops short: — his feet are on the verge. 
He stands, like marble, high above the surge. 

LXXI. 

And, nigh, the tall ship yet burns on, 

With red, hpt spars and crackling flame. 

From hull to gallant, nothing 's gone. 

She burns, and yet 's the same! 
Her hot, red flame is beating, all the night, 
On man and horse, in their cold, phosphor light. 

LXII. 

Through that cold light the fearful man 

Sits looking on the burning ship. 

He ne'er again will curse and ban. 

How fast he moves the lip ! 
And yet he does not speak, or make a sound! 
What see you, Lee.'' the bodies of the drowned? 



THE BUCCANEER. 21 



LXXIII. 



'' I look, where mortal man may not — 

Into the chambers of the deep. 

I see the dead, long, long forgot; 

I see them in their sleep. 
A dreadful power is mine, which none can know, 
Save he who leagues his soul with death and woe." 

LXXIV. 

Thou mild, sad mother — waning moon, 

Thy last, low, melancholy ray 

Shines towards him. — Quit him not so soon! 

Mother, in mercy, stay! 
Despair and death are with him; and canst thou. 
With that kind, earthward look, go leave him now.'^ 

LXXV. 

O, thou wast born for things of love; 

Making more lovely in thy shine 

Whate'er thou look'st on. Hosts above, 

In that soft light of thine. 
Burn softer: — earth, in silvery veil, seems heaven. 
Thou'rt going down! — hast left him unforgiven! 

LXXVI. 

The far, low west is bright no more. 

How still it is! No sound is heard 

At sea, or all along the shore. 

But cry of passing bird. 
Thou living thing, — and dar'st thou come so near 
These wild and ghastly shapes of death and fear? 



22 THE BUCCANEER. 

LXXVII. 

Now long that thick, red light has shone 
On stern, dark rocks, and deep, still bay. 
On man and horse that seem of stone. 
So motionless are they. 
But now its lurid fire less fiercely burns: 
The night is going — faint, gray dawn returns. 

LXXVIII. 

That spectre-steed now slowly pales; 

Now changes like the moonlit cloud; 

That cold, thin light, now slowly fails. 

Which wrapt them like a shroud. 
Both ship and horse are fading into air. — 
Lost, mazed, alone, see, Lee is standing there! 

LXXIX. 

The morning air blows fresh on him; 

The waves dance gladly in his sight; 

The sea-birds call, and wheel and skim — 

O, blessed morning light! 
He doth not hear their joyous call; he sees 
No beauty in the wave; nor feels the breeze. 

LXXX. 

For he 's accursed from all that 's good; 

He ne'er must know its healing power. 

The sinner on his sins must brood, 

And wait, alone, his hour. 
A stranger to earth's beauty — human love. 
There 's here no rest for him, no hope above ! 



THE BUCCANEER. 23 

LXXXI. 

The hot sun beats upon his head. 

He stands beneath its broad, fierce blaze, 

As stiff and cold as one that 's dead: 

A troubled, dreamy maze 
Of some unearthly horror, all he knows — 
Of some wild horror past, and coming woes. 

LXXXIL 

The gull has found her place on shore ; 

The sun gone down again to rest; 

And all is still but ocean's roar: 

There stands the man unblest. 
But, see, he moves — he turns, as asking where 
His mates I — Why looks he with that piteous stare? 

LXXXIII. 

Go, get thee home, and end thy mirth 1 

Go, call the revellers again! 

They're fled the isle; and o'er the earth 

Are wanderers, like Cain. 
As he his door-stone past, the air blew chill. 
The wine is on the board; Lee, take thy fill ! 

LXXXIV. 

** There 's none to meet me, none to cheer: 
The seats are empty — lights burnt out; 
And I alone, must sit me here: 
Would I could hear their shout ! " 

He ne'er shall hear it more — more taste his wine ! 

Silent he sits within the still moonshine. 



24 THE BUCCANEER, 

LXXXV. 

Day came again; and up he rose, 

A weary man from his lone board; 

Nor merry feast, nor sweet repose 

Did that long night afford. 
No shadowy-coming night, to bring him rest — 
No dawn, to chase the darkness of his breast! 

LXXXVI. 
He walks within the day's full glare 
A darkened man. Where'er he comes, 
All shun him. Children peep and stare; 
Then, frightened, seek their homes. 

Through all the crowd a thrilling horror ran. 

They point and say — '' There goes the wicked man !" 

LXXXVII. 

He turns, and curses in his wrath 
Both man and child; then hastes away 
Shoreward, or takes some gloomy path; 
But there he cannot stay: 

Terror and madness drive him back to men; 

His hate of man to solitude again. 

LXXXVIII. 

Time passes on, and he grows bold — 

His eye is fierce, his oaths are loud; 

None dare from Lee the hand withhold; 

He rules and scoffs the crowd. 
But still at heart there lies a secret fear; 
For now the year's dread round is drawing near. 



THE BUCCANEER. 25 



LXXXIX. 



He swears, but he is sick at heart; 

He laughs*, but he turns deadly pale; 

His restless eye and sudden start — 

These tell the dreadful tale 
That will be told: it needs no words from thee, 
Thou self-sold slave to fear and misery. 

XC. 

Bond-slave of sin, see there — that light! 
*' Ha! take me — take me from its blaze ! " 

Nay, thou must ride the steed to-night ! 

But other weary days 
And nights must shine and darken o'er thy head. 
Ere thou shalt go with him to meet the dead. 

XCI. 

Again the ship lights all the land; 

Again Lee strides the spectre-beast; 

Again upon the cliff they stand. 

This once he '11 be released ! — 
Gone horse and ship; but Lee's last hope is o'er; 
Nor laugh, nor scoff, nor rage, can help him more. 

XCII. 

His spirit heard that spirit say, 
** Listen! — I twice have come to thee. 

Once more — and then a dreadful way ! 

And thou must go with me !" 
Ay, cling to earth as sailor to the rock ! 
Sea-swept, sucked down in the tremendous shock, 



26 THE BUCCANEER. 

XCIII. 

He goes ! — So thou must loose thy hold, 

And go with Death; nor breathe the balm 

Of early air, nor light behold, 

Nor sit thee in the calm 
Of gentle thoughts, where good men wait their close. 
In life, or death, where look'st thou for repose? 

XCIV. 

Who 's sitting on that long, black ledge, 
Which makes so far out in the sea. 
Feeling the kelp-weed on its edge? 
Poor, idle Matthew Lee ! 
So weak and pale? A year and little more, 
And bravely did he lord it round this shore ! 

XCV. 

And on the shingles now he sits, 

And rolls the pebbles 'neath his hands; 

Now walks the beach; then stops by fits, 

And scores the smooth, wet sands; 
Then tries each cliff, and cove, and jut, that bounds 
The isle; then home from many weary rounds. 

XCVl. 

They ask him why he wanders so. 
From day to day, the uneven strand? 
'' I wish, I wish that I might go ! 
But I would go by land; 
And there ^s no way that I can find — I 've tried 
All day and night ! '* — He seaward looked and sighed. 



THE BUCCANEER. 27 

XCVII. 

It brought the tear to many an eye, 
That, once, his eye had made to quail. 
'' Lee, go with us; our sloop is nigh; 
Come ! help us hoist her sail." 
He shook. — '' You know the spirit-horse I ride I 
He '11 let me on the sea with none beside ! '^ 

XCVIII. 

He views the ships that come and go. 

Looking so like to living things. 

O ! 'tis a proud and gallant show 

Of bright and broad-spread wings. 
Making it light around them, as they keep 
Their course right onward through the unsounded deep, 

XCIX. 

And where the far-off sand-bars lift 
Their backs in long and narrow line. 
The breakers shout, and leap, and shift, 
And send the sparkling brine 
Into the air; then rush to mimic strife: — 
Glad creatures of the sea, and full of life ! — 

C. 

But not to Lee. He sits alone; 

No fellowship nor joy for him. 

Borne down by woe, he makes no moan, 

Though tears will sometimes dim 
That asking eye. — O, how his worn thoughts crave — 
Not joy again, but rest within the grave. 



28 THE BUCCANEER. 

CI. 

The rocks are dripping in the mist 

That hes so heavy off the shore ; 

Scarce seen the running breakers; — list 

Their dull and smothered roar ! 
Lee hearkens to their voice. — ''I hear, I hear 
You call. — Not yet ! — I know my time is near ! " 

CII. 

And now the mist seems taking shape. 

Forming a dim, gigantic ghost, — 

Enormous thing ! — There 's no escape ; 

'Tis close upon the coast. 
Lee kneels, but cannot pray. — Why mock him so? 
The ship has cleared the fog, Lee, see her go ! 

cm. 

A sweet, low voice, in starry nights. 

Chants to his ear a plaining song; 

Its tones come winding up the heights, 

Telling of woe and wrong ; 
And he must listen till the stars grow dim, 
The song that gentle voice doth sing to him. 

CIV. 

O, it is sad that aught so mild 

Should bind the soul with bands of fear; 

That strains to soothe a little child. 

The man should dread to hear ! 
But sin hath broke the world's sweet peace — unstrung 
The harmonious chords to which the angels sung. 



THE BUCCANEER, 29 



CV. 



In thick, dark nights he 'd take his seat 

High up the cliffs, and feel them shake, 

As swung the sea with heavy beat 

Below — and hear it break 
With savage roar, then pause and gather strength, 
And then, come tumbling in its swollen length. 

CVI. 

But he no more shall haunt the beach, 

Nor sit upon the tall cliff's crown. 

Nor go the round of all that reach. 

Nor feebly sit him down. 
Watching the swaying weeds: — another day, 
And he '11 have gone far hence that dreadful way. 

CVII. 

To night the charmed number 's told. 
*' Twice have I come for thee," It said. 
''Once more, and none shall thee behold. 
Come ! live one, to the dead ! " — 
So hears his soul, and fears the coming night; 
Yet sick and weary of the soft, calm light. 

CVIII. 

Again he sits within that room; 

All day he leans at that still board; 

None to bring comfort to his gloom, 

Or speak a friendly word. 
Weakened with fear, lone, haunted by remorse. 
Poor, shattered wretch, there waits he that pale horse. 



30 THE BUCCANEER. 

CIX. 

Not long he waits. Where now are gone 
Peak, citadel, and tower, that stood 
Beautiful, while the west sun shone, 
And bathed them in his flood 

Of airy glory ? — Sudden darkness fell; 

And down they went, peak, tower, citadel. 

ex. 

The darkness, like a dome of stone, 

Ceils up the heavens. — 'T is hush as death - 

All but the ocean 's dull, low moan. 

How hard Lee draws his breath ! 

He shudders as he feels the working Power. 

Arouse thee, Lee ! up ! man thee for thine hour ! 

CXI. 

' Tis close at hand; for there, once more, 
The burning ship. Wide sheets of flame 
And shafted fire she showed before; — 
Twice thus she hither came; — 
But now she rolls a naked hulk, and throws 
A wasting light; then, settling, down she goes. 

CXII. 

And where she sank, up slowly came 

The Spectre-Horse from out the sea. 

And there he stands ! His pale sides flame. 

He '11 meet thee shortly, Lee. 
He treads the waters as a solid floor: 
He 's moving on. Lee waits him at the door. 



THE BUCCANEER. 31 

CXIII. 

They 're met. — '' I know thou com'st for me," 

Lee's spirit to the spectre said; 
'' I know that I must go with thee — 

Take me not to the dead. 
It was not I alone that did the deed ! " 
Dreadful the eye of that still, spectral steed! 

CXIV. 

Lee cannot turn. There is a force 
In that fixed eye, which holds him fast. 
How still they stand ! — the man and horse. 
'' Thine hour is almost past." 
'* O, spare me," cries the wretch, '^ thou fearful One ! " 
*' My time is full — I must not go alone." 

cxy. 

'^ I 'm weak and faint. O, let me stay ! " 
'^ Nay, murderer, rest nor stay for thee ! " 
The horse and man are on their way; 
He bears him to the sea. 
Hark! how the spectre breathes through this still 

night ! 
See, from his nostrils streams a deathly light ! 

CXVI. 

He 's on the beach; but stops not there; 

He 's on the sea ! — that dreadful horse I 

Lee flings and writhes in wild despair ! — 

In vain ! The spirit-corse 
Holds him by fearful spell; — he cannot leap. 
Within that horrid light he rides the deep. 



32 THE BUCCANEER. 



CXVII. 



It lights the sea around their track — 
The curling comb, and dark steel wave: 
There, yet, sits Lee the Spectre's back — 
Gone 1 gone ! and none to save ! 

They 're seen no more ; the night has shut them in. 

May heaven have pity on thee, man of sin ! 

CXVIII. 

The earth has washed away its stain; 

The sealed up sky is breaking forth, 

Mustering its glorious hosts again, 

From the far south and north; 
The climbing moon plays on the rippling sea. 
— O, whither on its waters rideth Lee ? 



THE CHANGES OF HOME, 



If it be life to wear within myself 

This barrenness of spirit, and to be 
My own soul's sepulchre. 

For hours she sate ; and evermore her eye 
Was busj'' in the distance, shaping things 
That made her heart beat quick. 



Byroj?. 



Wordsworth. 



Pine not away for that which cannot be. 

The Pinnbr of Wakefield. 



The Vale was beautiful; and, when a child, 
I felt its sunny peace come warm and mild 
To my young heart. Within high hills it slept. 
Which o'er its rest their silent watches kept, 
And gave it kindly shelter, as it lay 
Like a fair, happy infant in its play. 
The dancing leaves, the grain that gently bent 
In early light, as soft winds o'er it went; 
The new-fledged, panting bird, in low, short flight, 
That filled my little bosom with delight, 
3 



34 THE CHANGES OF HOME. 

Yet mixed with fear, lest that some unseen harm 
Should spoil its just-born joy — all these a charm 
Threw round my morn of being. — Here I 've stood. 
Where from its covert in the thick houghed wood, 
The slender rill leaped forth, with its small voice, 
Into the light, as seeming to rejoice 
That it was free; and then it coursed away. 
With grass, and reeds, and pebbles holding play. 

It seemed the Vale of Youth ! — of youth untried, 
Youth in its innocence, and in its pride — 
In its new life delighted; free from fears. 
And' griefs, and burdens, borne on coming years. 

Such was the Vale. And then within it played 
Edward, a child, and Jane, a little maid. 
I see them now no more, where once they stood 
Beside the brook, or 'neath the sloping wood. 
The brook flows lonely on; o'er mimic mound 
jVo longer made to leap with fairy bound. 
Then, as they built the little dam and mill, 
Their tongues went prattling with the prattling rill, 
As if the babes and stream were playmates three, 
With cheerful hearts, and singing merrily. 
The tiny labor's o'er; the song is done 
The children sang; the rill sings on alone. 

How like eternity doth nature seem 
To life of man — that short and fitful dream! 
I look around me; no where can I trace 
Lines of decay that mark our human race. 



THE CHANGES OF HOME. 35 

These are the murmuring waters, these the flowers 
1 mused o'er in my earlier, better hours. 
Like sounds and scents of yesterday they come. — 
Long years have past since this was last my home ! 
And I am weak, and toil-worn is my frame ; 
But all the vale shuts in is still the same: 
'Tis I alone am changed; they know me not: 
I feel a stranger, or as one forgot. 

The breeze that cooled my warm and youthful brow, 
Breathes the same freshness on its wrinkles now. 
The leaves that flung around me sun and shade. 
While gazing idly on them as they played. 
Are holding yet their frolic in the air; 
The motion, joy, and beauty still are there — : 
But not for me ! — I look upon the ground: 
Myriads of happy faces throng me round, 
Familiar to my eye; yet heart and mind 
In vain would now the old communion find. 
Ye were as living, conscious beings, then, 
With whom I talked — but I have talked with men! 
With uncheered sorrow, with cold hearts have met; 
Seen honest minds by hardened craft beset; 
Seen hope cast down, turn deathly pale its glow; 
Seen virtue rare, but more of virtue's show. 

Yet there was one true heart: that heart was thine. 
Fond Emmeline — O God ! it once was mine. 
It beats no more. That fierce and cruel blow, 
It struck me down, it laid my spirit low ! 



36 THE CHANGES OF HOME. 

No feeble grief that sobs itself to rest, 
Benumbing grief, and horrors filled my breast: 
Dark death, and sorrow dark, and terror blind — 
They made my soul to quail, they shook my mind — ^ 

! all was wild — wild as the driving wind. 
The storm went o'er me. Once again I stand 

Amid God's works — his broad and lovely land. 
It is not what it was — no, not to me ; 

1 cannot feel, though lovely all I see; 
A void is in my soul; my heart is dry: 

They touch me not — these things of earth and sky. 
E'en grief hath left me now; my nerves are steel; 
Dim, pangless dreams my thoughts: — Would I could 

feel! 
O, look on me in kindness, sky and earth; 
We were companions almost from my birth. 
Yet once more stir within me that pure love, 
Which went with me by fountain, hill and grove. 
Delights I ask not of ye; let me weep 
Over your beauties; let your spirit sweep 
Across this dull, still desert of the mind; 
O, let me with you some small comfort find ! 
The world, the world has stript me of my joy. 
Bless me once more; ye blest me when a boy. 

Where are the human faces that I knew? 
All changed; and even of the changed how few ! 
No tongue to give me welcome, bid me rest. 
In sounds to stir the heart, like one new blest. 



THE CHANGES OF HOME. 37 

There stands my home — no more my home ; and they 
Who loved me so — they, too, have past away. 
The sun lies on the door-sill, where my book 
I daily read, and fitted line and hook, 
And shaped my bow; or dreamed myself a knight 
By lady loved, by champion feared in fight. 
— Gone 's thy fantastic dream; thy lance is broke, 
Thy helmet cleft ! — No knight that struck the stroke. 
'T was Time, who his strong hand upon thee laid, 
Unhorsed thee, boy, and spoiled thee of thy maid. 

Thus stood I yesterday; and years far gone, 
Present and coming years to me were one; 
And long have been so; for the musing see 
Inward, and time they make eternity ; 
Or put the present distant, till it blends 
With sad, past thoughts, or bright ones that hope sends. 

While dreaming so, I saw an aged man 
Draw near. He bowed and spoke ; and I began — 

'' Canst tell me, friend, I pray, whose home may be 
The ancient house beneath that old, gray tree? " 

" They are a stranger race; and since they came 
We 've learned but little. — Spencer is the name. 
'Twas rumored round they better days had known; 
And we, in pity, would have kindness shown — 
Kindness of fellowship ; not proffered aid. 
To be with forced and humbling thanks repaid. 



*" 38 THE CHANGES OF HOME. 

We saw they liked it not. A show of scorn 
Was in their smile. O ! they were higher born; 
And sought out our retirement where to hide 
Their fortune's fall." 

'' They should have hid their pride; 
Should have subdued it rather. 'Tis a thorn 
That frets the heart; a chain it is that 's worn 
On man's free motions, making him the slave 
Of those he hates, because he dares not brave; — 
The shrewd man's sober scorn, the idler's jeer; 
Bound to the shame of which he lives in fear." 

'^ Ay ! on its neighbour, too, it shuts the door, 
As that is shut. It was not so before; 
For there, with wife and son, did Dalton dwell. 
'Twas cheerful welcome then and kind farewell; 
Farewell so kind — that dwelt so on the heart, 
You 'd wish to meet, were 't but again to part. 
— The pair within the silent grave are laid." 

'' But he, their son? They had a son, you said.^ " 

'* A rich relation saw the boy had mind. 

* Such minds a market in the world must find; ' — 
So said he. — ' And the boy must learning have; 
For learning, power, and weahh and honors gave.' 
'Mind and a market ! — Will he sell the child 

As slaves are sold? ' they ask. The uncle smiled. 

* And does not Nathan teach to read and write, 
To spell and cipher — letters to indite ? 



THE CHANGES OF HOME. 39 

What 's learning, then, that he must needs go seek 
So far from home ? ' — ' They call it Latin — Greek.' 
Wisely all farther question they forebore; 
And looked profound, though puzzled as before. 

*' The years past on. Kind, frequent letters came, 
Which showed the man and boy in heart the same; 
By a hard world not hardened, nor yet vain 
That much he knew, nor proud with all his gain. 

"^ And he his own green vale would see again, 
And playmate boys, now turned to thoughtful men. 
But ere the time, a fever, like a blast, 
Swept through the vale ; and fearful, sudden, fast, 
It struck down young and old. — To see them fall. 
But not the hand that smote them, shook us all. 
It took the parents in their hopes and joy — 
They went, and never saw again their boy." 

-But he.?" 

'' Within his grief there lived a power, 
Withheld him — that withholds him to this hour. 
Though of his marriage first there went a tale. 
Yet soon a mournful story reached our vale. 
A cloud shut out the light that brightly shone, 
Set him in darkness, sorrowing and alone. 
Thy cheek is sudden pale ! thine eye is dim ! 
Thou art not well ! " 

'' Nay, on ! say, what of him.'^ " 



40 THE CHANGES OF HOME. 

'' No more is known. Time has assuaging balm; 
And time the tossing of the mind can calm. 
But there 's a silent grief that knows no close, 
Till death has laid us down to long repose. 
That sleep may now be his; or he may go 
In search of rest; no rest on earth to know. 

'' But why so sad? Why should a stranger grieve 
When strangers mourn? O! all must mourn who live!" 

'^ Thou sayest true. And grief makes strangers kin. 
'T is thine from crime and sorrow man to win, 
To preach, woe came with sin — was kindly given 
To touch our hearts and lead us back to heaven: — 
For such thy garb bespeaks thee; and though old, 
Thine air, thy talk seem slowly to unfold 
One who within this vale, in manhood's prime, 
Lifted the lowly soul to thoughts sublime." 

'' And, stranger, who art thou, that, in such tones, 
Greet'st me as one who old acquaintance owns? 
Thy face is as a book I cannot read; 
Nor does thy voice my spirit backward lead. 
Stirring old thoughts." 

*' Nay, nay, thou look'st in vain ! 
This face — it bears the sea's and desert's stain; 
And yet, both boy and man, I 'm in thy mind. 
Canst nothing here of Harry Dalton find ? " 



THE CHANGES OF HOME. 41 

He looked again. A gleam of joy arose, 
An instant gleam, then sank in sad repose; 
For lines he saw of trouble, more than age — 
That words of grief were written on the page. 
Then laughing eyes and cheeks of youthful glow 
Came to his mind, and grief that it was so 
That joy and youth so soon away should go. 

He gave his hand, but nothing either said, 
And slowly turning, homeward silent led. 

At our repast words few and low we spoke: 
Silence, it seemed, not lightly to be broke. 
But soon upon our thoughtful minds there stole, 
Converse that gently won the saddened soul. 

Then towards the village we together walked, 
And of old friends and places much we talked. 
And who had died, who left them he would tell; 
And who still in their fathers' mansions dwell. 

We reached a shop. No lettered sign displayed 
The owner's name, or told the world his trade. 
But on its door cracked, rusty hinges swung; 
And there a hook or well worn horseshoe hung. 
The trough was dry; the bellows gave no blast; 
The hearth was cold; no sparks flew red and fast; 
Labor's strong arm had rested. Where was he, 
Brawny and bare, who toiled, and sang so free? 



42 THE CHANGES OF HOME. 

But soon we came where sat an aged man. 
His thin and snow-white locks the breezes fan. 
While he his long staff fingered, as he spoke 
In sounds so low, they scarce the stillness broke. 

" Good father ! " said my guide. He raised his 
head, 
As asking who had spoke; yet nothing said. 
'' The present is a dream to his worn brain; 
And yet his mind does things long past retain." 

My friend then questioned him of former days. 
Mingling with what he asked some little praise. 
His old eyes cleared; a smile around them played, 
As on my friend his shaking hand he laid. 
And spoke of early prowess. Friends he named; 
And some he praised: — they were but few he blamed. 

" Dost thou remember Dalton.^ " asked my guide. 

'' Dalton? Full well ! His little son beside.— 
A waggish boy ! — It will not from my thought — 
His curious look as I my iron wrought. 
And, as the fiery mass took shape, his smile 
Made me forget my labor for awhile. 
Before he left us, and when older grown, 
He told of one who out from heaven was thrown, 
Who forged huge bolts of thunder when he fell; 
One-eyed his workmen, and his shop a hell; 
So, called me Vulcan." 



THE CHANGES OF HOME. 43 

'^ Vulcan ! — John ! art thou? 
What ! long-armed John, with moist and smutty 
brow?" 

He gazed on me, half wondering and half lost. 
Something it could not grasp his mind had crossed. 
A moment's struggle in his face betrayed 
The effort of the brain; and then he said, 
Eager and quick — '' What ! come? — Where, 

where 's the boy ? 
And looks the same ? 'T will give his parents joy ? '^ 
Then talked he to himself. His eyes grew dead; 
He felt his hands; nor did he raise his head. 
Nor miss us as we parted, on our way 
Along the street where the close village lay. 

To pass the doors where I had welcomed been, 
And none but unknown voices hear within; 
Strange, w^ondering faces at those windows see, 
Once lightly tapped, and then a nod for me ! — 
To walk full cities, and yet feel alone — 
From day to day to listen to the moan 
Of mourning trees — 'twas sadder here unknown! 

The village past, w^e came where stood aloof 
An aged cot with low and broken roof 
The sun upon its walls in quiet slept; 
Close by its door the stream in silence crept; 
No rustling birds were heard among the trees, 
Which high and silent stood as slept the breeze. 



44 THE CHANGES OF HOME. 

The cot wide open; yet there came no sound 
Of busy steps: — 'twas all in stillness bound: 
Awful, yet lovely stillness, as a spell. 
On this sweet rest and mellow sunshine fell. 

And there, at the low door so fixed is one, 
As if for years she 'd borne with rain and sun, 
vAll mindless of herself, and lost in thought 
Which to her soul a far-off image brought. 
About her shoulders hangs her long, white hair; 
She clasps the post with fingers pale and spare. 
And forward leans. 

'* What sees she in those hills? " 

'' 'Tis a vain fancy that her vision fills. 
Or, rather, nothing sees she: Hope delayed, 
Worn, feeble hope, which long her mind has swayed — 
Born and to die in grief — the hope she knows; 
A something gathered, midst her cherished woes, 
From sad remembrances, from wishes vain — 
Dim fiction of the mind to ease its pain." 

*' Her name, I pray thee ! '' 

*' Dost thou w4sh to hear 
Of two true lovers, Jane, and Edward Vera? " 

'* What, she! and look so old? — And can it be 
That woe has done so well time's work with thee!" 



THE CHANGES OF HOME. 45 

'' It struck her in her youth, as doth the blast 
The opening flower; and then she withered fast." 

'' I fain would know her story.'' 

''Soon 'tis told — 
Simple though sad; no mystery to unfold, 
Save that one great, dread mystery — the mind, 
Which thousands seek, but few in part can find. 

' ' We '11 rest us here, beneath this broad tree's shade ; 
The sun is hot upon the open glade." 

''A little farther! — Let us not obtrude 
Upon her sorrows' holy solitude." 

'' She marks us not: The curious passer-by. 
Children who pause, and know not why they sigh — 
Unheeded all by that fixed, gleamy eye. 
But to her story. 

'' She and that fair boy 
Shared with each other childhood's griefs and joy. 
Their studies one. Then, as they homeward went 
With busy looks, on little schemes intent. 
Their earnest, happy voices might be heard 
Along the lane where sang the evening bird. 
— Why should I speak of what you know so well? 
What chanced when you had left us let me tell. 



48 THE CHANGES OF HOxME. 

'' Time changes innocence to virtues strong, 
Or mars the man with passions foul and wrong. 
To warm and new emotions time gives life, 
Fluttering the heart in strange yet pleasing strife. 
Filling the quickened mind with visions fair — 
Hues like bright clouds, that rest, like clouds, on air, 
Deepening each feeling of the impassioned soul, 
Round one loved object gathering then the whole. 
So deepened, strengthened, formed, the love that grew 
From childhood up, and bound in one the two. 
So opened their fresh hearts, as to the sun 
The young buds open : life was just begun. 
For this it is to live — the stir to feel 
Of hopes, fears, wishes, sadness, joy — the zeal 
Which bands us one in life, death, woe and weal. 
And life it is, when a soft, inward sense 
Pervades our being, when we draw from hence 
Delights unutterable, thoughts that throw 
Unearthly brightness round this world below; 
Making each common day, each common thing, 
Something peculiar to our spirit bring." 

I saw in him a gentler sense that played 
' Mid saddened thoughts on this once young, fair maid, 
As plays the little child, unconscious why 
The rich, black pall, and that long, tremulous sigh. 

'^ Thy talk of love," said I, ^' restores thy youth. 
'Tis true, decay, nor age awaits on truth; 



THE CHANGES OF HOME. 47 

And he who keeps a simple heart and kind, 
May something there of early feelings find. 
For in all innocent and tender hearts 
A spirit dwells that cheerful thoughts imparts; 
' Mong sorrows, sunny blessings it bestows 
On those who think upon another's woes." 

My friend went on. 

'' At length drew near the time 
That he must travel to some distant clime 
In search of gain. 'A few short years away/ 
He fondly said, ' and then the happy day; 
And long, bright days — ail bright, without a cloud ! ' — 
They never came; and he is in his shroud. 
She gazed up in his hopeful face and tried 
To share his hope; then hung on him and sighed. 
Her cheek turned pale, and her dark eye grew dim; 
And then through tears again she 'd look on him. 
In his full, clear, blue eye an answering tear 
Spoke comfort; for it told that she was dear — - 
That love was strong as hope; that though it grew 
' Mid thoughts less sad than her's, 'twas no less true, 
And that in his bold, free, and cheerful mind, 
Her timid love its home would always find. 

'' The last day came — a long, sad, silent day, 
It shone on two sick hearts. He must away. 
Ah! then he felt how hard it is to go 
From one so dear, and leave to lonely woe 



48 THE CHANGES OF HOME. 

A spirit yearning for its place of rest, 
Of kindly sympathies — a lover's breast. 

'^ And he is gone far o'er the foaming wave. 
' Spare him ye dark, wild waters! Heaven him save! ' 
So prayed she ; and the earnest prayer was heard. 
A year past by; — he came before the third. 

' ' Then from the sealed up heart, joy gushed once more, 
For he had come — come from the stranger's shore. 
To his own vale, and through the ocean's roar. 

'' Ah ! sweet it is, to gaze upon the face 
Long seen but by the mind, to fondly trace 
Each look and smile again. — 'Tis life renewed — 
How fresh ! How dim was that by memory viewed ! 
And, oh, how pines the soul; how doth it crave 
Only a moment's look ! 'Tis in the grave — 
That lovely face; no more to bless thine eyes. 
Nay, wait, thou 'It meet it soon in yonder skies. 

'^ The throbbing pulse beats calm again; and they, 
Too deeply happy to be loud or gay, 
Through all their childhood's walks — the lane, the 

grove — 
Along the silvery rill, would slowly move. 
Mingling their hopes' bright lights, with soft'ning shades 
That memory threw 'mong hill tops, streams, and 
glades; 



THE CHANGES OF HOME. 49 

For love is meditative; close it clings, 

And thoughtful, to earth's simple, silent things. 

'' And thus they wandered; nearer heart to heart; 
For they had known how hard it is to part; 
To live in love, yet no communion hold — 
Day following day, yet all we feel untold. 

'' And she would listening sit, and hear him speak 
Of fierce and tawny Turk, and handsome Greek, 
Of the young crescent moon on sullen brow — 
The cross of Christ profaned and made to bow. 
— And what ! Shall he who hung above our head 
That gentle light, see that whereon he bled. 
Bend to the image of the thing he framed? 
Throng to the cross! Our Saviour's cross is shamed! 

'' He spoke of men of far more distant climes, 
Their idol worship stained with fearful crimes; 
Of manners strange and dresses quaint would tell; 
But most upon the sea he loved to dwell — 
Its* deep, mysterious voice, its maddened roar. 
Its tall, strong waves, the white foam, and the shore. 
The curse that on its gloomy spirit hung — 
' Thou ne'er shalt sleep ! ' — -through all its chambers 

rung; 
Till closer to his side she 'd trembling draw, 
As if some dim and fearful thing she saw; — 
So would this awful mystery fold her round : 
She quailed as though she heard the very sound. 
4 



50 THE CHANGES OP HOME. 

'^ 'And must you on the heaving sea again — 
Mighty destroyer, deep, broad grave of men ? ' 
' This once ! ' said he, — ' no more ! ' — She raised 

her eyes 
To his. — Her voice upon her pale lip dies. 
Her first-felt sorrow came upon her mind, 
And back she shrunk, as shrinks he whom they bind 
Once more upon the rack — poor, weakened wretch ! 
Save him ! — O, not again its fiery stretch ! 

'' Sharp our first pangs; but in our minds is life; 
Our hearts beat strong, and fit us for the strife ; 
A joyous sense still breathes amid our grief, 
As shoots, in drooping boughs, a tender leaf. 
But when woe comes again, our spirits yield. 
Our hearts turn faint, we cannot lift the shield; 
There is no strength in all our bones; we fall, 
And call for mercy — trembling, prostrate, call. 

'^ The sun was down, and softened was the glow 
On cloud and hill — but now a joyous show. 
Quiet the air. Its light the young moon sent 
On this sad pair as up the vale they went. 
— O ! gentle is thy silver ray, fair moon. 
Meet guide art thou for those to part so soon. 
There 's pity in thy look; and we below 
Do love thee most, who feel the touch of woe. 

'^ And up among the distant hills are they, 
To meet the weekly coach upon its way. 



THE CHANGES OP HOME. 51 

They lingered till was heard a rumbling sound, 
Which spread between the hills that lay around. 
Soon rung the smart cracked whip ; and then the cheer, 
And quick, sharp tramp told the strong steeds were 

near. 
'Twas one imploring look; and then she fell 
Upon his neck; they uttered no farewell — 
One short, convulsive clasp, one heart-sick groan — 
No other look — that one, weak, bitter moan, — 
And then her arms fell from him. — All is o'er ! 
Poor woe-struck girl, she never clasped him more ! 

'' The coach which bore him sank behind the hill. 
The short, quick bustle past, the earth is still; 
The agony is over; a dull haze 
Hangs round her mind — upon the void her gaze, 
A fearful calm is on that fair, sad brow! 
O! who shall gently part its dark locks now. 
Or press its saintly whiteness? — He is gone. 
Who, blessing, kissed thee; — thou must go alone; 
Alone must bear thy sorrows many an hour, 
Widowed of all thy hopes — thy grief thy dower ! 

'^ She sought amid her daily cares for ease, 
To lose all sense of self, and others please. 
The heart lay heavy. With her grief was fear. 
She thought a gloomy something always near, 
That o'er her like a mighty prophet stood. 
Uttering her doom — ' For thee no more of good ! 
Thy joys are withered round thee ! Read the date 
Of all thy hopes ! — Thou art set desolate ! ' 



62 THE CHANGES OF HOME. 

^' A year went by. Another came and past. 

* This third/ her friends would say, ' must be the last: ' 
Spake of his coming, then, and how he 'd look. 

She turned more pale; her head she slowly shook. 

And something muttered, as in talk with one 

Whom no one saw ; — then said — ' It must be done !' 

'' And when the tale was told, the ship had sailed. 
That nothing more was known — that hope had failed ; 
' It is fulfilled !' she said — ' Prophetic Power, 
Thou told'st me true ! — 'T is come — the fated hour ! ' 

'' Her look was now like cold and changeless stone. 
She left her home, for she would be alone; 
Wandered the fields all o'er; and up the hill. 
Where last they parted, stood at morning still, 
And far along that region gazed, as she 
In the blue distance saw the moving sea; 
And of the far-off mountain-mist would frame 
Long spars, and sails, and give the lost ship's name; 
And watch with glee, to see how fast it neared; 
Grow restless then — ' It ne'er will come,' she feared. 

'' Soon rolls the mist away; and she is left, 
Of sea, ship, lover, shaping hopes bereft. 
Through glistening tears she 'd look, and see them go; 
Then to the vale, to dwell upon her woe, 
And listen to the dark pine's murmuring, 
Thinking the spirit of the sea did sing 
Its sad, low song: — for, ' Such,' would Edward say, 

* Its mourning tones, where long sand-beaches lay.' 



THE CHANGES OF HOME. 53 

But when through naked trees the strong wind went, 
Roaring and fierce, and their tossed arms were rent 
With sullen mutterings, then a moaning sigh — 
' Hear them ! ' she 'd shriek, — ' The waves run moun- 
tain high ! — 
They 're mad ! - — They shake her in their wrath — 
She 's down ! — 

— Went to the bottom, said they? — Did all drown? — 
He told me he would come, and I should be 

His own, own wife ! — -There 's mercy in the sea? ' 

'' The spring was come again. — There is a grief 
Finds soothing in the bud, and bird, and leaf 
A grief there is of deeper, withering power, 
That feels death lurking in the springing flower — 
That stands beneath the sun, yet circled round 
By a strange darkness — stands amid the sound 
Of happy things, and yet in silence bound; — 
Moves in a fearful void amid the throng, 
And deems that happy nature does it wrong ; 
Thinks joy unkind; feels it must walk alone. 
That not on earth is one to hear its moan, 
Or bring assuaging sympathies, or bind 
A broken heart, or cheer a desert mind. 

— And thus she walks in silent loneliness. 
Sounds come, and lovely sights around her press; 
Yet all in vain ! She something sees and hears, 
But feels not — dead to pangs, to joys, to fears; 
Nor wishes aught. The mind all waste and worn, 
Lives but to faintly know itself forlorn ; 



54 THE CHANGES OF HOME. 

Remembrance of past joys well nigh forgot, 
As if one changeless gloom had been her lot; 
And, sure, had thought it strange that there should be 
Blessings in store for one so poor as she. 

^^ She wandered in this dull and fearful mood, 
A shadow 'mong the shadows of the wood; 
Would sit the livelong day and watch the stream, 
And pore, when shed the moon its fainter beam, 
In dreamy thought, upon the djreamy light. — 
How few, of grief, have felt, can feel the might ! 

'^ Season of thought ! The leaves are dropping now. 
Tawny or red, from off their parent bough. 
Nor longer plays their glossy green in air, 
Over thy slender form and long dark hair. 
Myriads of gay ones fluttered over thee ; — 
Thou now look'st up at that bare, silent tree. 
Thou, too, art waste and silent : — in thy spring 
The cold winds came, and struck thee blossoming ! 
Nor sound, nor life, nor motion in thy mind: 
All lost to sense, what would thy spirit find ? 

" They led her home. She went ; nor asked to stay. 
The same to her, the wood, the house, the way. 
The talk goes on — the laugh, the daily tasks : 
She stands unmoved ; she nothing heeds nor asks. 
Above the fire, sea shells, from distant lands, 
Once ranged by her, she feels with idle hands. 
And what the soul's communion none could trace; — 
No gloamings of the past in that still face ! 



THE CHANGES OF HOME. 55 

^' They marked, when spring returned and warmer 

days, 
She stood, as now, on yonder hill her gaze. 
They thought not what it meant, nor cared to know 
The glimmerings of a mind whose light was low. 
They saw, as up the hill the hot steeds came, 
A strange and sudden shuddering take her frame. 
She gave a childish laugh, and gleamed her eye. 
The coach went down — they heard a scarce breathed 

sigh. 
A shade past o'er her face, as quickly go 
Shades flung from sailing clouds, on fields below ; 
Then all was clear and still ; the unmeaning smile. 
The senseless look returned, which fled awhile. 
And thus her dreamy days, months, years are gone : 
Not knowing why she looks, she yet looks on. 
— We '11 homeward now ! " 

Death is a mournful sight, 
But what is death, to this dread, living blight ! 

Thou who didst form us with mysterious powers, 
And give a conscious soul, and call it ours; 
Thou who alone dost know the strife within. 
Wilt kindly judge, nor name each weakness sin. 
Thou art not man, who only sees in part. 
Yet deals unsparing with a brother's heart; 
For thou look'st in upon the struggling throng 
That war — the good with ill — the weak with strong. 



56 THE CHANGES OF HOME. 

And those thy hand hath wrought of finer firame, 
When grief o'erthrows the mind^ thou wilt not blame; 
But say, '^ It is enough ! " — and pity show. — 
'' Thy pain shall turn to joy, thou child of woe ! 
Thy heart at rest, and dark mind cleared away. 
Heaven's light shall dawn on thee, a calmer day." 

The sun was nigh its set, as we once more 
With saddened spirits reached the good man's door. 
And there we rested, with a gorgeous sight 
Above our heads — the elm in golden light. 
Thoughtful and silent for awhile — he then 
Talked of my coming. — '' Thou wilt not again 
From thine own vale ? And we will make thy home 
Pleasant; and it shall glad thee to have come." 
Then of my garden and my house he spoke. 
And well ranged orchard on the sunny slope ; 
And grew more bright and happy in his talk 
Of social winter eve and summer walk. 
And, while I listened, to my sadder soul 
A sunnier, gentler sense in silence stole ; 
Nor had I heart to spoil the little plan 
Which cheered the spirit of the kind old man. 

At length I spake — 

'' No ! here I must not stay. 
I '11 rest to-night — to-morrow go my way.'* 

He did not urge me. — Looking in my face. 
As he each feeling of the heart could trace, 



THE CHANGES OF HOME. 57 

He pressed my hand, and prayed I might be blest, 
Where'er I went — that heaven would give me rest. 

The silent night has past into the prime 
Of day — to thoughtful souls a solemn time. 
For man has wakened from his nightly death 
And shut up sense, to morning's life and breath. 
He sees go out in heaven the stars that kept 
Their glorious watch, while he, unconscious, slept, — 
Feels God was round him, while he knew it not — 
Is awed — then meets the world — and God's forgot. 
So may I not forget thee, holy Power! 
Be ever to me as at this calm hour. 

The tree-tops now are glittering in the sun : 
Away ! 'Tis time my journey was begun ! 

Why should I stay, when all I loved are fled, 
Strange to the living, knowing but the dead ! 
A homeless wanderer through my early home ; 
Gone childhood's joy, and not a joy to come ? 
To pass each cottage, and to have it tell, 
Here did thy mother, here a playmate dwell; 
To think upon that lost one's girlish bloom. 
And see that sickly smile, and mark her doom ! 
It haunts me now — her dim and wildered brain. 
I would not look upon that eye again ! 

Let me go, rather, where I shall not find 
Aught that my former self will bring to mind. 



58 THE CHANGES OF HOME. 

These old, familiar thing's, where'er I tread, 
Are round me like the mansions of the dead. 
No ! wide and foreign lands shall be my range: 
That suits the lonely soul, where all is strange. 

Then, for the dashing sea, the broad, full sail ! 
And fare thee well, my own, green, quiet Vale. 



FACTITIOUS LIFE. 



The world is too much with us ; late or soon, 
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers : 
Little we see in Nature that is ours ; 
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon. 

Wordsworth. 

But if his word once teach us — shoot a ray 

Through all the heart's dark chambers, and reveal 

Truths undiscerned but by that holy light, 

Then all is plain. Philosophy, baptized 

In the pure fountain of eternal love, 

Has eyes, indeed. Cowper. 

The severe schooles shall never laugh me out of the philosophy of Hermes, 
that this visible world is but a picture of the invisible, wherein, as in a pour- 
tract, things are not truly, but in equivocal shapes, and as they counterfeit 
some more real substance in that invisible Fabrick. 

Sir Thomas Browne* 



Scarce two score years are gone since life began, 
Yet many changes have I seen in man. 
But when I 'm seated in my easy chair, 
(My '' stede of bras " ) and up through viewless air, 
Go flying on by generations back, 
O, then, what changes pass I in my track! 



60 FACTITIOUS LIFE. 

*' Cambuscan bold " might course o'er many a clime. 
I in a moment compass earth and time, 
Seeing what is and hath been; and I view 
Much very old, that some think very new. 

The grandam to the modern belle complains, 
You 've stole my waist. May you endure its pains — 
Steel and the cord! — In his fine dandy son 
The ghost of Squaretoes sees himself outdone. 
''Pull off my boots," he cries, with crazy Lear; 
And squaretoed boots and Squaretoes disappear, — 
— Fie, scant-robed ghost, to thus cut roundabout 
That modest miss, and so play 'Cobbler Stout.' 
O, take no more than is thy own — the {rain; 
Shame to pure eyes!— the rest give back again. 
If on such errands you come back to earth. 
You '11 leave us all as naked as at birth. 
Wife, Virgin, mother, see them, there they walk! 

Dress as they may, good Sir, you must not talk. 
For learn, in times like these you 're not to say 
What others do, though done in open day. 
Our language, not our conduct, marks the mind. 
Let that be pure, and this must be refined. 
Ophelia's words would shock a modern belle. 
— Prince Hamlet, had Ophelia's robe that swell .^ 
Did the wind sway it thus? the janty tread? 
What said Laertes at his parting, maid? 
' The chariest maid is prodigal enough, 
If she unmask her beauties to' — 

O, stuff! 



FACTITIOUS LIFE. 61 

Have you no other subject for your song, 
Than whether we go drest too short or long? 
If such the theme on which you mean to prose, 
Excuse me, while you lecture, if I doze. 

Nay, I am done! and rest on this as true; — 
Though Fashion 's absolute, she 's fickle too. 
E'en while I write, a transformation strange 
Is going on, and shows that all is change. 
And by the time these lines shall be in press, 
They'll need a learned note, in prose, on dress. 

Not dress alone; opinions have their day; 
That is deposed, and this awhile bears sway; 
That mounts the throne in glistering robes once more: 
They who adored, then scorned, again adore. 
To scorn again: — in one thing constant still — 
Themselves ne'er wrong, whoe'er the throne may fill. 

Be it opinion, notion, fancy, whim — 
E'en what you will — 't is all the same to him — 
The grave philosopher; he wheels about 
His system to the crowd; then wheels it out. 
And shoves another in; as at a show 
Trees, houses, castles, towns move to and fro; 
Ransacks the lumber-room of ancient time, 
The older, better, best in farthest clime; 
For farthest off less likely to be known 
The learned theft: — the thing is all his own! 



62 FACTITIOUS LIFE. 

Old furniture, new varnished and new named. 
Serves all his ends; the charlatan is famed. 
O, simple world, well gulled ! he cries, with glee ; 
Blest ' second-hand originality ! ' 

From Asia, Africa, from Greece behold 
Rise from their antique tombs the sages old. 
This modern son of light descries, with dread, 
Their shadowy forms : They come, the mighty dead! 

For pardon, wronged ones, at your feet I fall. 
I own the theft; but strip me not of all ! 
Leave me my name, at least, if nothing more; 
Save one from general scorn, whom men adore. 

The name, dishonored, keep, they with a frown 
Reply; then turn, and to their graves go down. 

Although upon the shore of time we stand, 
And watch the ebb and flood along the strand; 
Although what is, has been, we yet may trace 
A silent change upon the world's wide face. 
'Mid renovated philosophic schemes. 
And arts restored or lost, plans, fashions, dreams, 
That idly eddying, jostle side by side, 
Down through them all there runs a steady tide 
Of subtile alteration, scarce perceived; 
As age, of hope and youthful warmth bereaved, 
But faintly notes a change so soft and slow: 
So gently dropped the leaves that lie below. 



FACTITIOUS LIFE. 63 

But bring the extremes together; let them greet — 
The elastic boj, and man on tottering feet. 
We ask amazed. Can these indeed be one? 
Yes, even so; we see what Time has done, — 
That cunning craftsman, he that works alway, 
Makes and unmakes, nor stops for night nor day, — 
(For they his bond-men are) rules while he toils, 
And laughs to think what purposes he foils 
In vain, fore-casting man — that fool or knave 
(All but the truly wise) he holds a slave. 

Thou universal Worker, thou hast wrought 
Vast changes in the world of heart and thought. 
Once flowed the stream of feeling, like a brook, 
In natural windings; now we feel by book. 
And once, as joy or sorrow moved the man, 
He laughed or wept, unguided by a plan 
Of outward port; for in his riper years 
The boy still lived; and anger, love, and fears 
Spoke out in action vehement: 'Twas strength. 
Strong heart, strong thought; thought, feeling ran 

their length 
In a wild grandeur, or they passive lay. 
Like waters circled in a wooded bay. 
That take from some slow cloud the quivering lights 
Thrown from its snowy rifts and glittering heights. 

Yes, free and ever varying played the heart; 
Great Nature schooled it; life was not an art. 
And as the bosom heaved, so wrought the mind; 
The thought put forth in act; and unconfined, 



64 FACTITIOUS LIFE. 

The whole man lived his feelings. Time shall say 
If man's the same in this our latter day? 

The same ! I scarcely know my work! For when 
I take my rounds among the throngs of men, 
E'en he who almost rivals me in years, 
Apes youth so well; his head of hair appears 
So full and fresh, I fain would hide my pate, 
Rub out old scores, and start with a new date. 

The youth enacts the sage, contemns the dead. 
Lauds his own times, and cries, Go up, bald head! 
Misses and little masters read at school 
Abridged accounts of governments and rule; 
Word-wise, and knowing all things, nothing know; 
They 'd reap the harvest, e'er the ground they sow. 
The world 's reversed; boy politicians spout; 
And age courts youth, lest youth should turn him out. 

The child is grown as cautious as three score ; 
Admits, on proof, that two and two are four. 
He to no aimless energies gives way; 
No little fairy visions round him play; 
He builds no towering castles in the sky, 
Longing to climb, his bosom beating high; 
Is told that fancy leads but to destroy; 
You have five senses; follow them, my boy 1 
If feeling wakes, his parents' fears are such, 
They cry, Don 't, dearest, you will feel too much. 



FACTITIOUS LIFE. 65 

Does Time speak truth? I think so. Let us take 
A single passion, for example's sake. 

They talk of love, or rather, once they did. 
When I was young: I'm told 'tis now forbid; 
That love, with ghosts, is banished clean away. 
And heads well crammed, the system of the day ; 
That should you beg a maid her ear incline 
To your true love, she bids you love define; 
Then talks of Dugald Stewart and of Brown, 
And with philosophy quite puts you down; 
On mood synthetical, analysis, 
Descants awhile. — Most metaphysic Miss ! 
Who'd win thee, must not like a lover look, 
But grave philosopher, and woo by book. 
Gaze on her face, and swear her eyes are stars; — 
She talks of Venus, Jupiter and Mars. 
Speak of the moon; — its phases and eclipse 
How caused, you hear from learned and ruby lips. 
Vow you will pour your heart out like a flood; — 
She treats on venous and arterial blood; 
Drives you half mad, then talks of motive nerve. 
And nerves of sense, how they their purpose serve, 
And how expression to the face impart. 
How all important to the painter's art. 
Then wonders that our eyes had seen so well 
Before we read about their nerves in Bell; 
Thus, for love's mazes, leads you round about 
Through arts and sciences, an endless route. 
5 



66 FACTITIOUS LIFE. 

O, no, it was not so when I was young; 
No maiden answered love in such a tongue, 
Or cared for planets in conjunction brought; 
With her, 'twas heart with hand, and thought to thought. 
She tell what blood her veins and arteries fill ! 
Enough for her to feel its burning thrill. 
She gaze upon the moon, as if she took 
An observation! Love was in her look 
All gentle as the moon. Herself perplex 
With light original, or light reflex! 
Enough for her, '' By thy pale beam," to say, 
'' Alone and pensive, I delight to stray; 
And watch thy shadow trembling in the stream." * — 
O, maid, thrice lovelier than thy lovely dream! 

And is the race extinct } Or where is hid 
She, with the blushing cheek and downcast lid, 
Tremblingly delicate, and like the deer. 
Gracefully shy, and beautiful in fear? — 
Who wept with good La Roche, heard Harley tell 
His secret love, then bid to life farewell? — 
Dreamed of Venoni's cottage in the vale. 
And of Sir Edward senseless, bleeding, pale ? 

Here guard thy heart; nor let the poison creep 
Through the soul's languor, like delicious sleep. 
Wake ere its rancour eats into the core: 
His is not love; 'tis appetite — no more, — 
A finer appetite, like love so dressed. 
Thou 'd'st be its victim, pitied and distressed ; 

* Charlotte Smith's sonnet " To the Moon." 



FACTITIOUS LIFE, 67 

Than smiles or innocence would'st hold more dear 
A wooing sadness, soft, repentant tear: — 
Tears, and dark falling locks, and snowy arm — 
In aught so beautiful can there be harm ? 

Ah ! shun Sir Edward, maiden, for thy life; 
Nor, once his mistress, think to be his wife; 
Or, doomed for all thy days, if wife in name. 
To live thy own, thy child's, thy husband's shame, 
Be taunt's, suspicion's slave; nor dare to raise 
Thine eye,though wronged, nor hope a husband's praise. 
There 's reverence in true love ; it dreads, abhors 
The tainted heart ; it sues, protects, adores. 
Then win thee reverence, if that thou would'st win 
True love: — it holds no fellowship with sin. 

But why complain romantic love is dead, 
If to uncertain paths it wooes, to lead 
The innocent half doubting, yet half won. 
Through softening twilight — mingled shade and sun^ 
While slowly steal the lights away, and creep 
The shadows by, till on the fearful steep 
She stands awhile at pause; then looks below; 
Then leaps; — the closing waves above her flow,. 
And down she sinks forever? 

Very true. 
Are these the only dangers in your view ? — 
Or would you lay fair flowering nature bare 
Because, forsooth, you fear a canker there? 
If love may lure romantic minds astray, 
Will shruder heads point out a surer way? 



68 FACTITIOUS LIFE. 

-—To live alone, cries one, how dull a life ! 
I think I'll marry; and straight takes a wife. 
Soon tired of home, and finding life still dull.. 
He joins his club, keeps horses and a trull; 
Of jokes on loving husbands cracks a score, 
And coarse as heartless, votes a wife a bore. 
The widow-wife secures, her loss to mend, 
A kinder husband, in her husb and' s /Wend; 
Or, unrestrained by love, yet held by vows. 
Though scarce more fond, less faithless than her spouse. 

One weds with age ; and should she keep her truth. 
As once she sighed for wealth, now sighs for youth; 
Looks on its mantling cheek, and brown crisp hair, 
Then turns to age and wrinkles, in despair: — 
Her husband's harlot, feigns love's playful wiles, 
So deals her bargained coaxings, and her smiles 
The dotard dreams she loves: — thus acts her part, 
And robbed the joys of sin, still sins in heart. 

But here a youthful pair ! What think you now r 
The friends agreed, — say, shall they take the vow? 
Connexions quite respectable all round; 
With ample property, and titles sound. 

Most certainly an eligible match, 
Estates so fit, like patch well set to patch. 

'T is strange none thought of it before ! 



FACTITIOUS LIFE. 6^ 

My friend, 
How fit their minds? And do their feelings blend? 

Why, as to these I 've not as yet inquired. 
What more than I have said can be desired? 
They '11 learn to like each other by and by. 
'T is not my business into hearts to pry 
After such whims. Besides, what them contents, 
Contents me too. — Come, let us sum their rents. 
Houses in town — say, ten — • 

Nay, join their hands. 
Boggle at hearts! We ne'er should join their lands! 
What matters it, if rough and sharp below ? 
Custom and art will make the surface show 
Smooth to the world on this McAdam way 
To wedded life; we '11 have no more delay, 
Butjoin them straight. — The pair have made a trade — 
Contract in lands and stocks 'twixt man and maid: 
Partners for life; club chances — weal or woe. 
Hangout the sign! There, read! — A. B. & Co.! 

And do unsightly weeds choke up the gush 
Of early hearts ? Are all the feelings hush 
And lifeless now, that would have sent their sound 
In unison, where young hearts throb and bound? 
Tear up the weeds and let the soul have play; 
Open its sunless fountains to the day; 
Let them flow freely out; they'll make thy wealth. 
Bathe thy whole being in these streams of health, 



70 FACTITIOUS LIFE. 

And feel new vigor in thy frame ! — A boy ! — 
And weigh thy pelf with love ! — against a joy 
That lifts the mind and speaks it noble — gives 
Beauty ethereal, in which it lives 
A life celestial here, on earth — e'en here! 
What canst thou give for this, and call it dear? 
O, it is past all count! Pray, throw thou by 
Thy tables; trust thy heart; thy tables lie. 
Let not thy fresh soul wither in its spring. 
Water its tender shoots, and they shall bring 
Shelter to age : Thou 'It sit and think how blest 
Have been thy days, thank God, and take thy rest. 
Sell not thy heart for gold, then, or for lands, 
^Tis richer far than all Pactolus' sands. 
And where on earth would run the stream to lave 
The curse away, and thy starved soul to save? 

But all are reasoners; father, mother, child; 
And every passion 's numbered, labeled, filed. 
And taken down, discussed, and read upon. 

We read, last night, mama, through chapter one. 
And left the second in the midst. Shall we 
Go through with that? 

The second ? Let me see ! — 
The second treats of Grief — Read, child! 

Fourth head 
Concerning grief, is sorrow for the dead. 

Know, happiness is duty. Then, be wise, 

You 're not to grieve though one you care for dies. 



FACTITIOUS LIFE. 71 

Have many friends, and then you '11 scarcely know 
When one departs, and save a world of woe. 
Nor do we now retire to mourn; we live 
Only in taking pleasure, or to give. 

Is sorrow, sin then, mother? 

'Tis a waste. — 
Sin I child. How vulgar! mind me; say, bad taste. 

But what is pleasure ? Men have said of old, 
'T is found in neither luxury, nor gold. 
Nor fashion, nor the throng; but there is true 
Where minds are calm, and friends are dear and few; 
That life's swift whirl wears out our finer sense. 
Sucks down the good, and gives out nothing thence 
But a tost wreck, which, once the comely frame 
Of some true joy, saves nothing but the name. 
And drifts a shattered thing, upon the shore, 
Where lie the unsightly wrecks of thousands more. 

To flee from sorrow and alone to keep 
The eye on happiness, leaves nothing deep 
E'en in our joys. To put aside in haste 
The cup of grief, makes vapid to the taste 
The cup of pleasure. Think not, then, to spare 
Thyself all sorrow, yet in joy to share. 

Take up that many-stringed harp, and thrum. 
On one dull chord, with one dull, heavy thumb. 
Now thrill the fibres of thy soul ? or flow 
In sounds of varying measure, swift or slow, 



72 FACTITIOUS LIFE. 

The full rich harmonies? — Nay, listen on ! 
Thy soul has myriad strings where this has one. 
— Wearied so soon? — Then take it up and play 
On all its strings, but let its notes be gay. 
— Wearied again ? and glad to throw it by ? 

Yes, tired, in faith; I long to hear it sigh: 
I 'm worn with very glee. O, let me give 
One note to touch my heart, and feel it live ! " 

And thus the soul is framed; that if, alone, 
We loose one chord, the harp will fail its tone. 
The mighty harmonies within, around, 
Die all away, or send a jarring sound. 

Give over then, and wisely use thy skill 
To tune each passion rightly, not to kill. 
To joy thee in the living, mourn the dead; 
And know, thou hast a heart, as well as head, — 
A heart that needs, at times, the softening powers 
Of grief, romantic love, and lonely hours. 
And meditative twilight, and the balm 
Of falling dews, and evening stars, and calm. 

For ever in the world, there forms a crust 
About thy soul, and all within 's adust. 
With sense beclouded, and perverted taste. 
You toil abroad, and leave the heart a waste; 
Dead while alive, and listless in the stir, 
See all awry, deem manner, character; — 



FACTITIOUS LIFE. 73 

Not sentient of the right, nor loathing wrong, 

You smile, and call that rude, which God calls strong: 

No honest indignation in your breast. 

Nor ardent love, but all things well exprest: 

Your manner, like your dress — a thing put on; — 

The seen, not that beneath, your care alone. 

The dress has made the form by nature given ^ 
Unlike aught ever seen in earth or heaven. 
Where, girl, thy flowing motion, easy sweep? 
Like waves that swing, nor break the glassy deep ? 
All hard, and angular, and cased in steel ! 
And is it human? Can it breathe and feel? 
The bosom beautiful of mould — alas ! 
Where, now, thy pillow, youth? — But let it pass, — 
And shapes in freedom lovely? — I will bear 
Distorted forms, leave minds but free and fair. 
'T is all alike conventional ; the mind 
Is tortured like the body, cramped, confined ; 
A thing made up, by rules of art, for life ; 
Most perfect, when with nature most at strife ; 
Till the strife ceases, and the thing of art. 
Forgetting nature, no more plays a part ; 
Sees truth in the factitious ; — pleasure's slave — 
Its drudge, not lord ; in trifles only grave. 

And with the high brought low, the little raised, 
Nature forgotten, the factitious praised. 
The world a gaud, life's stream a shallow brawl, 
What, worldling, holds up virtue from a fall? 



74 FACTITIOUS LIFE. 

Virtue? Nay, mock it not. There sits its Form : 
Thy hand upon its heart ! — Does 't beat? Is \ warm? 
No pulse ! and cold as death ! 

Then, paint its face. 
And dress it up, and giv^e the thing a grace. 
For sake of decency. — Why, just look there ! 
How like it is ! And what a modish air ! 
How very proper! Sure, it can 't but pass, 
And serve in time to come, for fashion's glass. 

With etiquette for virtue, heart subdued. 
The right betraying, lest you should be rude. 
Excusing wrong, lest you be thought precise. 
In morals easy, and in manners nice; 
To keep in with the world your only end. 
And with the world, to censure or defend. 
To bend to it each passion, thought, desire, 
With it genteelly cold, or all on fire. 
What have you left to call your own, I pray? 
You ask. What says the world, and that obey: 
Where singularity alone is sin. 
Live uncondemned, and prostrate all within. 
You educate the manners, not the heart; 
And morals make good breeding and an art. 
Though coarse within, yet polished high without, 
And held by all respectable, no doubt. 
You think, concealed beneath these flimsy lies, 
To keep through life the set proprieties. 



FACTITIOUS LIFE. 75 

Ah, fool, let but a passion rise in war. 
Your mighty doors of Gaza, posts and bar, 
'Twill wrench away. The Dalilah of old — 
Your harlot virtue — thought with withes to hold 
Her strong one captive. The Philistines came; 
He snapped the bands as tow, and freed his frame, 
And forth he went. And think you, then, to bind 
With cords like these the Samsons of the mind. 
When tempters from abroad beset them? Nay ! 
They '11 out, and tread like common dust your sway. 

You strive in vain against the eternal plan. 
Set free the sympathies, and be a man. 
And let the tear bedew thine honest eye, 
When good ones suffer, and when loved ones die. 
Deem not thy fellow as a creature made 
To serve thy turn in pleasure or in trade, 
And then thrown by. It breaks thy moral power 
To wrap the eternal up in one short hour. 
And ask what best will serve to help you on. 
Or furnish comforts till your life is done. 

And is it wise or safe to set at naught 
The finer feelings in our nature wrought, 
That throw a lovelier hue on innocence. 
And give to things of earth a life intense. 
Drawing a charmed circle round our home. 
That nothing gross or sensual there may come } 
Yet, what makes virtue beauty you would bend 
To worldly purposes — a prudent end ! 



76 FACTITIOUS LIFE. 

From virtue take this beautiful regard, 
And leave her homely prudence, duty hard; 
Let passions unrefined, fed appetites. 
Awake and call aloud for gross delights. 
Think you the paltry barriers you have built. 
Will stand the tug, and keep out shame and guilt ? 

Then, leave your coldforecastings, sharp, close strife 
For vantage; quit the whirl you call your life, 
And see how God has wrought. — This earth was made. 
For use of man, its lord, you 've heard it said. 
Yes, it is full of uses; you may see 
How plainly made for use is yonder tree, — 
To bear thee o'er the seas, or house thee dry, 
When rains beat hard, and winds are bleak and high. 

No, naught of this : But leaves, like fluttering wings, 
Flash light; the gentle wind among them sings. 
Then stops, and they too stop; and then the strain 
Begins anew; and, then, they dance again. 
I see the tinted trunk of brown and gray, 
And rich, warm fungus, brighter for decay, 
Whence rays of light, as from a fountain, flow; 
I hear the mother robin talking low 
In notes affectionate; the wide-mouthed brood 
Chattering and eager for their far-sought food. 
The air is spread with beauty; and the sky 
Is musical with sounds that rise, and die 
Till scarce the ear can catch them; then they swell; 
Then send from far a low, sweet, sad farewell. 



FACTITIOUS LIFE. 77 

My mind is filled with beauty, and my heart — 
With joy? Not joy, with what I would not part. 
It is not sorrow, yet almost subdues 
My soul to tears: it saddens while it wooes. 
My spirit breathes of love: I could not hate. 
O, I could match me with the lowliest state 
And be content, so I might ever know 
This, what? I cannot tell — not joy nor woe ! 

Come, look upon this stream. Now stoop and sip, 
And let it gurgle round your parching lip. 
It runs to slake the thirst of man and beast. 
The simple beverage to great nature's feast. 

My thirst is quenched; but still my spirit drinks, 
And my heart lingers, and my mind — it thinks 
Thoughts peaceful, thoughts upon the flow of time, 
And tells the minutes by this slender chime, — 
Music with which the waters gladly pay 
Blossoms and shrubs that make their surface gay. 

Thou little rill, why wilt thou run so fast 
To mingle with rough ocean and his blast? 
Thou thoughtless innocent, a world of strife 
Is there ! Then stay; nor quit thy peaceful life. 
And all thy shining pebbles, and the song 
Thou sing'st throughout the day, and all night long, 
Up to the sun, the stars, the moon when she 
Kisses thy face, half sadness and half glee. 



78 FACTITIOUS LIFE. 

Thus pity fills my heart, and thus I dream, 
When standing caring for the unconscious stream. 

Now stretch your eye off shore, o'er waters made 
To cleanse the air and bear the world's great trade, 
To rise, and wet the mountains near the sun. 
Then back into themselves in rivers run. 
Fulfilling mighty uses far and wide, 
Through earth, in air, or here, as ocean-tide. 

Ho ! how the giant heaves himself, and strains 
And flings to break his strong and viewless chains; 
Foams in his wrath; and at his prison doors. 
Hark ! hear him ! how he beats and tugs and roars, 
As if he would break forth again and sweep 
Each living thing within his lowest deep. 

Type of the Infinite ! I look away 
Over thy billows, and I cannot stay 
My thought upon a resting-place, or make 
A shore beyond my vision, where they break; 
But on my spirit stretches, till it 's pain 
To think; then rests, and then puts forth again. 
Thou hold'st me by a spell; and on thy beach 
I feel all soul; and thoughts unmeasured reach 
Far back beyond all date. And, O ! how old 
Thou art to me. For countless years thou hast rolled. 
Before an ear did hear thee, thou did'st mourn, 
Prophet of sorrows, o'er a race unborn; 
Waiting, thou mighty minister of death. 
Lonely thy work, ere man had drawn his breath. 



FACTITIOUS LIFE. 79 

At last thou did'st it well ! The dread command 
Came, and thou swept'st to death the breathing land; 
And then once more, unto the silent heaven 
Thy lone and melancholy voice was given. 

And though the land is thronged again, O Sea ! 
Strange sadness touches all that goes with thee. 
The small bird's plaining note, the wild, sharp call^ 
Share thy own spirit: it is sadness all! 
How dark and stern upon thy waves looks down 
Yonder tall Cliff — he with the iron crown. 
And see ! those sable Pines along the steep, 
Are come to join thy requiem, gloomy Deep ! 
Like stoled monks they stand and chant the dirge 
Over the dead, with thy low beating surge." 

These are earth's uses. God has framed the whole, 
Not mainly for the body, but the soul. 
That it might dawn on beauty, and might grow 
Noble in thought, from nature's noble show. 
Might gather from the flowers a humble mind, 
And on earth's ever varying surface find 
Something to win to kind and fresh'ning change. 
And give the powers a wide and healthful range; 
To furnish man sweet company where'er 
He travels on — a something to call dear. 
And more his own, because it makes a part 
With that fair world that dwells within the heart. 

Earth yields to healthful labor meat and drink, 
That man may live — for what.? To feel and think; 



80 FACTITIOUS LIFE. 

And not to eat and drink, and like the beast, 

Sleep, and then wake and get him to his feast. 

Over these grosser uses nature throws 

Beauties so delicate, the man foregoes 

Awhile his low intents, to soft delights 

Yields up himself; and lost in sounds and sights, 

Forgets that earth was made for aught beside 

His doting; and he wooes it as his bride. 

— - Beautiful bride ! thou chaste one, innocent ! 

To win and make man like thee, thou wast lent. 

Call with thy many pleasant voices, then; 

The wanderer will turn to thee again. 

Yes, now he turns ! And see ! the breaking day ! 

And in its dawn, the wanderer on his way ! 

Thou who art Life and Light, I see thee spread 
Thy glories through these regions of the dead ; 
I hear Thee call the sleeper: — Up ! Behold 
The earth unveiled to thee, the heavens unrolled ! 
On thy transformed soul celestial light 
Bursts; and the earth, transfigured, on thy sight 
Breaks, a new sphere ! Ay, stand in glad amaze. 
While all its figures, opening on thy gaze. 
Unfold new meanings. Thou shalt understand 
Its mystic hierograph, thy God's own hand. 

Ah ! man shall read aright when he shall part 
With human schemes, and in the new-born heart 
Feel coursing new-born life; when from above 
Shall flow throughout his soul joy, light and love; 



FACTITIOUS LIFE. 81 

And he shall follow up these streams, and find 
The One the source of nature, grace and mind. 
There, he in God and God in him, his soul 
Shall look abroad and feel the world a ivhole — 
'' From nature up to nature's God," no more 
Grope out his way through parts, nor place before 
The Former, the thing formed. — Man yet shall learn 
The outward by the inward to discern — 
The inward by the Spirit. 

Here begin 
Thy search, Philosopher, and thou shalt win 
Thy way deep down into the soul. The light, 
Shed in by God, shall open to thy sight 
Vast powers of being; regions long untrod 
Shall stretch before thee filled with life and God; 
And faculties come forth, and put to shame 
Thy vain and curious reasonings. Whence they came, 
Thou shalt not ask; for they shall breathe an air 
From upper worlds, around, that shall declare 
Them sons of God, immortal ones; and thou, 
Self-awed, in their mysterious presence bow; 
And while thou listenest, with thy inward ear 
The ocean of eternity shalt hear 
Along its coming waves; and thou shalt see 
Its spiritual waters, as they roll through thee; 
Nor toil in hard abstractions of the brain, 
Some guess of immortality to gain; 
For far-sought truths within thy soul shall rise, 
Informing visions to thine inward eyes. 
6 



82 FACTITIOUS LIFE. 

Believe thyself immortal ? Thou shalt know, — 
Shalt /ee/ thyself immortal, when shall flow 
Life from the Eternal, and shall end the strife 
To part philosophy and heavenly life. 
The soul to its prime union then restored, 
The reason humbled, and its God adored, 
Inward beholdings, powers intuitive. 
Shall wake that soul, and thought in feeling live, 
And truth and love be one, and truth and love. 
Felt like its life-blood, through the soul shall move. 

But as the abstract takes visual form, and thought 
Becomes an inward sense ; so man is brought 
In outward forms material to find 
A character in harmony with mind, 
A spirit that with his may kindly blend. 
And, sprung with him from One, in One to end. 
Set in his true relation, he shall see 
Self and surrounding things from Deity 
Proceeding and supplied — that earth but shows 
What, ere in outward forms they first arose, 
Lived spiritual, fair forms in God's own mind. 
And now revealed to him, no longer blind, 
Open relations to the world within, 
And feeling, truth and life in man begin. 
In sympathy with God, his sympathies 
Spread through the earth, and run into the skies. 
Full, yet receiving; giving out, yet full; 
Thoughtful in action; quiet, yet not dull, 
He stands 'tween God and earth: A genial light 
Dawns in his soul; and while he casts his sight 



FACTITIOUS LIFE. 8S 

Abroad, behold the Sua ! As on its track, 
It mounts high up the heavens, its fires give back 
Only the effluence of that inward fire. 
The reflex of the soul, and God its sire. 
Where'er the soul looks forth, 'tis to behold 
Itself in secondary forms unfold. 
Mysterious Archetype ! see wide unfurled 
Before thine eye, thy own, thy inner world I 

Now all is thine ; nor need'st thou longer fear 
To take thy share in all: The far, the near 
To thee are God's, so, thine ; and all things live 
To higher ends than earth; and thou dost give 
That life which God gives thee ; and to impart 
Is to receive; and o'er thy new-born heart 
The earth and heavens pour out a living flood; 
And thou, as God at first, seest all is good. 

Now, Love his life, and Truth his light alone. 
His spirit even, head and heart at one, 
A rule within that will no more deceive, 
Man sees, to love, and loves but to believe: 
With mind well balanced, sees and loathes deceit; 
And loving truth, detects its counterfeit; 
With all pervading truth his only guide. 
Hath naught that he would feign, and naught to hide. 
No selfish passion, and his vision just. 
And claiming trust himself, he dares to trust; 
And kind as trustful, ne'er to merit blind. 
But liking widely, never fails to find. 



B4 FACTITIOUS LIFEi 

Through all their varied forms, the good and true ) 

Nor seeks a substitute for narrowed view, 

In fond excess; nor meanly learns to rate 

His love of some, as he may others hate; 

Feeds not that love with venom; nor would raise 

On one man's ruin piles to others' praise; — 

Through nature, through the works of art, he feels 

'Tis ever changing beauty subtilely steals. 

Which, varying, still is one; and thus he draws 

From one, delight in all, through genial laws; — 

Feels that in love's expanse love's safety lies, 

Nor what God proffers to himself denies; — 

That every attribute, when duly used, 

Is wisdom — not our being's gifts refused, 

And losing self in others, nobler end 

Than self-denied; to let our being blend 

With general being, wakes intenser life. 

And others' good our aim, ends inward strife; — 

That truth binds all things by a common tie; 

And Love is universal harmony; 

And man, to truth and love once more restored. 

Shall hold with God and nature sweet accord. 

O, World, that thou wert wise ! Hast thou not toiled 
For seeming good enough? — enough been foiled? 
How long must speak the void and aching heart? 
I 'm weary of my task, this player's part — 
Of smiles I cannot feel, feigned courtesy, 
With feigning paid again — my life a lie. 
I Ve chased the false so long ! and yet I know 
The false hath naught for me but secret woe; 



FACTITIOUS LIFE. 85 

Yet knowing, still pursue, with blinded haste, 
Through systems, morals, fashions, manners, taste; —^ 
Have bartered love for wealth, distinction sought, 
And vain and loveless cares, and envy bought; 
Have climbed ambition's heights, to feel alone. 
Looked down, and seen how poor a world I've won;: 
Have lost the simple way of right, and tried 
Expedients curious, then for truth have sighed; 
And weak, from energies on nothings spent. 
Have sought, and then put by, what nature lent 
For kind repair ; — e'en like a pettish child, — 
Sick of pretence, yet willingly beguiled. 
Simplicity and all the fair array 
Of outward forms that, varying, still obey 
One law of truth, seemed tamely effortless; 
I've craved conceit, sharp contrast, and excess; 
Have cast my noble nature down, and all 
The outward world has felt and shared the fall; 
Yet, dimly conscious of my low. estate. 
Conscious how soon the world and senses sate, 
Groveller on earth, yet wanting will to rise. 
Tired of the world, unfitted for the skies. 
As to the abject, helpless slave, to me 
Would come, with dire import, the word. Be free ! " 

Poor, self-willed slave, a bondage hard is thine ! 
A bondage none can break but Power divine. 

Spirit of Love, thou Power Divine, come down; 
And where thou walk'dst a sufferer, wear thy crown: 



86 FACTITIOUS LIFE. 

Bid the vexed sea be still, the tumult cease; 
Prophet, fulfil thy word, reign Prince of Peace ! 
O, give that peace the world knows not, and throw. 
Light of the world ! thy light on all below; 
Shine through the wildered mind that man may see. 
Himself and earth restored, God, all, in Thee I 



THOUGHTS ON THE SOUL. 



" And when thou think 'st of ber eternity, 
Think not that death against her nature is ; 
Think it her birth." Davies. 

" But it exceeds man's thoughts to think how high 
God hath raised man." Same. 



It is the Soul's prerogative, its fate, 
To shape the outward to its own estate. 
If right itself, then, all around is well; 
If wrong, it makes of all without a hell. 
So multiplies the Soul its joy or pain, 
Gives out itself, itself takes back again. 
Transformed by thee, the world hath but one face. — 
Look there, my Soul! and thine own features trace! 
And all through time, and down eternity. 
Where'er thou goest, that face shall look on thee. 



88 THOUGHTS ON THE SOUL, 



We look upon the outward state, and, then, 
Say who is happiest — saddest who of men: 
We look upon the face, and think to know 
The measure of the bosom's joy or woe. 

A healthy man is that, and full his hoard, 
His farm well stocked, and well supplied his board, 
His helpmate comely, and a thrifty dame 
Of cheerful temper, morn, noon, eve, the same. 
How pale looks yonder man; his wife a scold. 
His children sickly, starved with want and cold. 
And there goes one, a freeman all his life. 
Whene'er had plagues of home, or child, or wife. 
Another lives in that large, silent hall, 
Bereft of friends, of wife, and child, and all. 

Now, of the four, who 's happiest, saddest .^ Say ! 
I thought thou knewest. Well, then, why delay? 
Oh, Hamlet like, thou would'st peruse the face ! 
And canst thou now the bosom's secrets trace? 
The face is called the index of the mind; * 

Yet dost not read it, wise one? — Art thou blind? 
It is the Soul made visible. Behold 
The shapes it takes. Speak ! What may his unfold? 

Why, joy, be sure; you saw how sweet it smiled. 

— Thou read a face t Go, read thy horn-book, child ! 



THOUGHTS ON THE SOUL. 89 

By summing that man's cattle by the head, 
His friends alive, or wife and children dead, 
Dost think to learn his spirit's breadth and length? 
To find his joys' and sorrows' depth and strength? 
Come! of these joys and sufferings make thy cast. 
Now tell me, pray, how foot they up at last? 
Of outward things thou canst not find the amount. 
Think'st thou the Soul's emotions, then, to count? 
To range upon the face the thoughts that fly 
Swifter than light ? — That rainbow, in the sky, 
Severs each hue. But what prismatic glass 
Hast thou to mark the feelings as they pass? 
Or what wherewith to sound, or tell the flow 
Of that man's deep and dark and silent woe? 
To name their kind, or reckon their degree. 
When joys play through him like a sparkling sea? 

Ocean and land, the living clouds that run 
Above, or stand before the setting sun, 
Taking and giving glory in his light, 
Live but in change too subtle for thy sight. 
The lot of man — see that more varied still 
By ceaseless acts of sense, and mind, and will. 
Yet could'st thou count up all material things, 
All outward difference each condition brings, 
Then would'st thou say, perhaps, Lo, here the whole! 
— The whole ? One thing thou hast forgot — The Soul ! 

— Life in itself, it life to all things gives; 
For whatsoe'er it looks on, that thing lives—- 



90 THOUGHTS ON THE SOUL. 

Becomes an acting being, ill or good ; 

And, grateful to its giver, tenders food 

For the Soul's health; or, suffering change unblest, 

Pours poison down to rankle in the breast: 

As acts the man, e'en so it plays its part, 

And answers, thought to thought, and heart to heart. 

Yes, man reduplicates himself You see. 
In yonder lake, reflected rock and tree. 
Each leaf at rest, or quivering in the air. 
Now rests, now stirs as if a breeze were there 
Sweeping the crystal depths. How perfect all! 
And see those slender top-boughs rise and fall! 
The double strips of silvery sand unite 
Above, below, each grain distinct and bright. 
Yon bird, that seeks her food upon that bough. 
Pecks not alone; for look! the bird below 
Is busy after food, and happy, too. 
— They're gone I Both pleased, away together flew. 

Behold we thus sent up, rock, sand, and wood, 
Life, joy, and motion from the sleepy flood ? 
The world, O man, is like that flood to thee: 
Turn where thou wilt, thyself in all things see 
Reflected back. As drives the blinding sand 
Round Egypt's piles, where'er thou tak'st thy stand, 
If that thy heart be barren, there will sweep 
The drifting waste, like waves along the deep. 
Fill up the vale, and choke the laughing streams 
That ran through grass and brake, with dancing beams, 



THOUGHTS ON THE SOUL. 91 

Sear the fresh woods, and from thy heavy eye 
Veil the wide-shifting glories of the sky. 

The rill is tuneless to his ear who feels 
No harmony within; the south wind steals 
As silent as unseen among the leaves. 
Who has no inward beauty, none perceives, 
Though all around is beautiful. Nay, more — - 
In nature's calmest hour he hears the roar 
Of winds and flinging waves — puts out the light, 
When high and angry passions meet in fight; 
And, his own spirit into tumult hurled. 
He makes a turmoil of a quiet world; 
The fiends of his own bosom people air 
With kindred fiends, that hunt him to despair. 
Hates he his fellow? Self he makes the rate 
Of fellow-man, and cries, 'T is hate for hate. 

Soul! fearful is thy power, which thus transforms 
All things into thy likeness; heaves in storms 
The strong, proud sea, or lays it down to rest. 
Like the hushed infant on its mother's breast — 
Which gives each outward circumstance its hue. 
And shapes the acts, and thoughts of men anew, 
Till they, in .turn, or love or hate impart, 
As love or hate holds rule within the heart. 

Then, dread thy very power; for, works it wrong, 
It gives to all without a power as strong 
As is its own — a power it can't recall: — 
Such as thy strength, e'en so will be thy thrall. 



92 THOUGHTS ON THE SOUL. 

The fiercer are thy struggles, wrath, and throes, 
Thou slave of sin, the mystic chain so grows 
Closer and heavier on thee. Thus, thy strength 
Makes thee the weaker, verier slave, at length, 
Working, at thy own forge, the chain to bind, 
And wear, and fret thy restless, fevered mind. 

Be warned ! Thou canst not break, nor scape, the 
power 
In kindness given in thy first breathing hour. 
Thou canst not slay its life: it must create; 
And, good or ill, there ne'er will come a date 
To its tremendous energies. The trust. 
Thus given, guard, and to thyself be just. 
Nor dream with life to shufile off the coil; 
It takes fresh life, starts fresh for further toil, 
And on it goes, for ever, ever, on. 
Changing, all down its course, each thing to one 
With its immortal nature: All must be. 
Like thy dread self, one dread eternity. 

Blinded by passion, man gives up his breath. 
Uncalled by God. We look, and name it Death. 
Mad wretch! the soul hath no last sleep; the strife 
To end itself, but wakes intenser life 
In the self-torturing spirit. Fool, give o'er ! 
Hast thou once been, yet think'st to be no more? 
What ! life destroy itself } O, idlest dream 
Shaped in that emptiest thing — a doubter's scheme. 
Think'st in an Universal Soul will merge 
Thy soul, as rain-drops mingle with the surge? 



THOUGHTS ON THE SOUL. 93 

Or, no less skeptic, sin will have an end, 

And thj purged spirit with the holy blend 

In joys as holy ? Why a sinner now ? 

As falls the tree, so lies it. So shalt thou. 

God's Book, rash doubter, holds the plain record; 

Dar'st talk of hopes and doubts against that Word? 

Or palter with it iu a quibbling sense? 

That Book shall judge thee when thou passest hence. 

Then — with thy spirit from the body freed — 

Then shalt thou know, see, feel, what 's life indeedl 

Bursting to life, thy dominant desire 
Shall upward flame, like a fierce forest fire; 
Then, like a sea of fire, heave, roar, and dash — 
Roll up its lowest depths in waves, and flash 
A wild disaster round, like its own woe — 
Each wave cry, *' Woe forever! '' in its flow, 
And then, pass on; — from far adown its path 
Send back commingling sounds of woe and wrath — 
Th' indomitable Will shall know no sway: — 
God calls — ^Man, hear Him; quit that fearful way? 

Come, listen to His voice who died to save 
Lost man, and raise him from his moral grave; 
From darkness showed a path of light to heaven; 
Cried, *' Rise and walk; thy sins are all forgiven.'' 

Blest are the pure in heart. Would'st thou be blest ? 
He'll cleanse thy spotted soul. Would'st thou find rest? 



94 THOUGHTS ON THE SOUL. 

Around thy toils and cares he '11 breathe a calm, 
And to thy wounded spirit lay a balm; 
From fear draw love; and teach thee where to seek 
Lost strength and grandeur — with the bowed and meek. 

Come lowly; He will help thee. Lay aside 
That subtile, first of evils — human pride. 
Know God, and, so, thyself; and be afraid 
To call aught poor or low that He has made. 
Fear naught but sin; love all but sin; and learn 
In all beside 't is wisdom to discern 
His forming, his creating power, and bind 
Earth, self and brother to the Eternal Mind. 

Linked with the Immortal, immortality 
Begins e'en here. For what is time to thee. 
To whose cleared sight the night is turned to day, 
And that but changing life, miscalled decay ? 

Is it not glorious, then, from thy own heart 
To pour a stream of life? — to make a part 
With thy eternal spirit things that rot, — 
That, looked on for a moment, are forgot, 
But to thy opening vision pass to take 
New forms of life, and in new beauties wake? 

To thee the falling leaf but fades to bear 
Its hues and odours to some fresher air; 
Some passing sound floats by to yonder sphere, 
That softly answers to thy listening ear. 



THOUGHTS ON THE SOUL, 95 

In one eternal round they go and come ; 
And where they travel, there hast thou a home 
For thy far-reaching thoughts. — O, Power Divine? 
Has this poor worm a spirit so like thine ? 
Unwrap its folds, and clear its wings to go! 
Would I could quit earth, sin, and care, and woe! 
Nay, rather let me use the world aright: 
Thus make me ready for my upward flight. 

Come, Brother, turn with me from pining thought. 
And all the inward ills that sin has wrought; 
Come, send abroad a love for all who live, 
And feel the deep content in turn they give. 
Kind wishes and good deeds — they make not poor; 
They '11 home again, full laden, to thy door. 
The streams of love flow back where they begin; 
For springs of outward joys, lie deep within. 

E'en let them flow, and make the places glad 
Where dwell thy fellow-men. Should'st thou be sad, 
And earth seem bare, and hours, once happy, press 
Upon thy thoughts, and make thy loneliness 
More lonely for the past, thou then shalt hear 
The music of those waters running near; 
And thy faint spirit drink the cooling stream, 
And thine eye gladden with the playing beam, 
That, now, upon the water dances, now. 
Leaps up and dances in the hanging bough. 

Is it not lovely? Tell me, where doth dwell 
The power that wrought so beautiful a spell .'^ 



96 THOUGHTS ON THE SOUL. 

In thy own bosom, Brother? Then, as thine, 
Guard with a reverend fear this power divine. 

And if, indeed, 't is not the outward state, 
But temper of the Soul, by which we rate 
Sadness or joy, e'en let thy bosom move 
With noble thoughts, and wake thee into love. 
And let each feeling in thy breast be given 
An honest aim, which, sanctified by heaven. 
And springing into act, new life imparts, 
Till beats thy frame as with a thousand hearts. 

Sin clouds the mind's clear vision ; man, not earth, 
Around the self-starved Soul, has spread a dearth. 
The earth is full of life: the living Hand 
Touched it with life ; and all its forms expand 
With principles of being made to suit 
Man's varied powers, and raise him from the brute. 
And shall the earth of higher ends be full? — • 
Earth which thou tread 'st ! — and thy poor mind be dull? 
Thou talk of life, with half thy soul asleep! 
Thou 'Miving dead man," let thy spirits leap 
Forth to the day; and let the fresh air blow 
Thro' thy soul's shut up mansion. Wouldst thou know 
Something of what is life, shake off this death; 
Have thy soul feel the universal breath 
With which all nature 's quick ! and learn to be 
Sharer in all that thou dost touch or see. 
Break from thy body's grasp, thy spirit's trance; 
Give thy Soul air, thy faculties expanse: — 



THOUGHTS ON THE SOUL. 97 

Love, joy, e'en sorrow, — yield thyself to all! 
They make thy freedom, man, and not thy thrall. 
Knock oif the shackles which thy spirit bind 
To dust and sense, and set at large thy mind! 
Then move in sympathy with God's great whole; 
And be, like man at first, '^ a living Soul ! " 



Though nothing once, and born but yesterday. 
Like Him who knows nor ending, nor decay. 
So shalt thou live, my Soul, — immortal one — - 
Strong as the firm, the dread, eternal throne. 
Endless as God, who sits for aye thereon. 

Infinite Father! shall thy creature dare 
Look forth, and say, '' Eternity I share 
With Him who made me? " May he forward send 
Histhoughts, andsay, ''Like God, I know no end?" — 
Stretch onward, age on age, till mind grows dim. 
Yet, conscious, cry, '' There still am I with Him? " 
— Worm of the dust ! — ^thought almost blasphemy ! — 
Dread glory ! — I, like God, shall ever be! 

O, Goodness searchless! — Thou who once didst 
walk 
With man on earth, with man familiar talk. 
Bringing thyself to him, to lead the way 
From darkness up to glory and to day, 
7 



98 THOUGHTS ON THE SOUL. 

Uniting with our form, that man, when blind 
To all but sense, the high intent might find 
Of his own sou], his never-dying mind — 
Teach us, in this thy Sacrifice, to see 
Thy love — our worth, in this great mystery. 

Poorly of his own nature he must deem — 
His very immortality a dream — 
Whose God 's so strange he may not condescend 
With his own last and greatest work to blend; 
But rather his lost creatures must forsake. 
Than deign to dwell with that He deigned to make. 
Though veiled in flesh, did God his glory hide ? 
God counts not glory thus, but human pride. 

Debased by sin, and used to things of sense. 
How shall man's spirit rise and travel hence, 
Where lie the Soul's pure regions, without bounds — 
Where mind 's at large, and passion ne'er confounds 
Clear thought, and thought is sight — the far brings nigh, 
Calls up the deep, and, now, calls down the high. 

Cast off thy slough, and send thy spirit forth 
Up to the Infinite, then know thy worth. 
With That, be infinite; with Love, be love, — 
Angel, 'mid angel throngs that move above; 
Ay, more than Angel: nearer the great Cause, 
Through his redeeming power, now read his laws — 
Not with thy earthly mind, that half detects 
Something of outward things by slow effects; 



THOUGHTS ON THE SOUL. 99 

Viewing creative causes, learn to know 

The hidden springs, nor guess as here below. 

Laws, purposes, relations, sympathies — 

In errors vain. — Clear Truth 's in yonder skies. 

Creature all grandeur, son of truth and light, 
Up from the dust ! the last great day is bright — 
Bright on the Holy Mountain, round the Throne, 
Bright where in borrowed light the far stars shone. 
Look down ! the Depths are bright ! And hear them cry, 
'' Light! light! " — Look up! 'tis rushing down from 

high! 
Regions on regions — far away they shine : 
'T is light ineffable, 't is light divine ! 
'' Immortal light, and life for evermore! " 
Off through the deeps is heard from shore to shore 
Of rolling worlds ! — Man, wake thee from the sod — 
Awake from death — awake! and live with God! 

tore; 



THE HUSBAND'S AND WIFE'S GRAVE. 



Husband and wife ! No converse now ye hold. 
As once ye did in your young day of love. 
On its alarms, its anxious hours, delays. 
Its silent meditations, its glad hopes. 
Its fears, impatience, quiet sympathies; 
Nor do ye speak of joy assured, and bliss 
Full, certain, and possessed. Domestic cares 
Call you not now together. Earnest talk 
On ^hat your children may be, moves you not. 
Ye lie in silence, and an awful silence; 
'Tis not like that in which ye rested once 
Most happy — silence eloquent, when heart 
With heart held speech, and your mysterious frames. 
Harmonious, sensitive, at every beat 
Touched the soft notes of love. 

A stillness deep 
Insensible, unheeding, folds you round; 
And darkness, as a stone, has sealed you in. 
Away from all the living, here ye rest: 
In all the nearness of the narrow tomb, 
Yet feel ye not each other's presence now. 
Dread fellowship ! — together, yet alone. 



THE husband's AND WIFE's GRAVE. 101 

Is this thy prison-house, thy grave, then, Love? 
And doth death cancel the great bond that holds 
Commingling spirits? Are thoughts that know no 

bounds, 
But self-inspired, rise upward, searching out 
The eternal Mind — the Father of all thought — 
Are they become mere tenants of a tomb ? — 
Dwellers in darkness, who the illuminate realms 
Of uncreated light have visited and lived? — 
Lived in the dreadful splendor of that throne. 
Which One, with gentle hand the veil of flesh 
Lifting, that hung 'twixt man and it, revealed 
In glory? — throne, before which even now 
Our souls, moved by prophetic power, bow down 
Rejoicing, yet at their own natures awed? — 
Souls that Thee know by a mysterious sense. 
Thou awful, unseen Presence — are they quenclied. 
Or burn they on, hid from our mortal eyes 
By that bright day which ends not; as the sun 
His robe of light flings round the glittering stars? 

And do our loves all perish with our frames? 
Do those that took their root and put forth buds. 
And their soft leaves unfolded in the warmth 
Of mutual hearts, grow up and live in beauty, 
Then fade and fall, like fair, unconscious flowers? 
Are thoughts and passions that to the tongue give 

speech. 
And make it send forth winning harmonies, — 
That to the cheek do give its living glow, 
And vision in the eye the soul intense 



102 THE husband's AND WIFE's GRAVE. 

With that for which there is no utterance — 
Are these the body's accidents? — no more? — 
To live in it, and when that dies, go out 
Like the burnt taper's flame? 

O, listen, man ! 
A voice within us speaks the startling word, 
'' Man, thou shalt never die ! " Celestial voices 
Hymn it around our souls: according harps, 
By angel fingers touched w^hen the mild stars 
Of morning sang together, sound forth still 
The song of our great immortality: 
Thick clustering orbs, and this our fair domain. 
The tall, dark mountains, and the deep-toned seas, 
Join in this solemn, universal song. 

— O, listen, ye, our spirits; drink it in 

From all the air ! 'T is in the gentle moonlight; 
'T is floating in day's setting glories; Night, 
Wrapt in her sable robe, with silent step 
Comes to our bed and breathes it in our ears: 
jVight, and the dawn, bright day, and thoughtful eve„ 
All time, all bounds, the limitless expanse. 
As one vast mystic instrument, are touched 
By an unseen, living Hand, and conscious chords 
Quiver with joy in this great jubilee: 

— The dying hear it; and as sounds of earth 
Grow dull and distant, wake their passing souls 
To mingle in this heavenly harmony. 

Why is it that I linger round this tomb ? 
What holds it? Dust that cumbered those I mourn. 



THE husband's AND WIFe's GRAVE. 103 

They shook it off, and laid aside earth's robes, 
And put on those of light. They 're gone to dwell 
In love — their God's and angels'. Mutual love 
That bound them here, no longer needs a speech 
For full communion; nor sensations strong. 
Within the breast, their prison, strive in vain 
To be set free, and meet their kind in joy. 
Changed to celestials, thoughts that rise in each, 
By natures new, impart themselves though silent. 
Each quickening sense, each throb of holy love. 
Affections sanctified, and the full glow 
Of being, which expand and gladden one, 
By union all mysterious, thrill and live 
In both immortal frames: — Sensation all, 
And thought, pervading, mingling sense and thought ! 
Ye paired, yet one ! wrapt in a consciousness 
Twofold, yet single — this is love, this life ! 

Why call we then the square-built monument, 
The upright column, and the low-laid slab. 
Tokens of death, memorials of decay ? 
Stand in this solemn, still assembly, man, 
And learn thy proper nature; for thou seest. 
In these shaped stones and lettered tables, figures 
Of life : More are they to thy soul than those 
Which he who talked on Sinai's mount with God, 
Brought to the old Judeans — types are these 
Of thine eternity. 

I thank Thee, Father, 
That at this simple grave, on which the dawn 



104 THE husband's AND WIFE's GRAVE. 

Is breaking, emblem of that day which hath 
No close, Thou kindly unto my dark mind 
Hast sent a sacred light, and that away 
From this green hillock, whither I had come 
In sorrow, Thou art leading me in joy. 



THE DYING RAVEN, 



Come to these lonely woods to die alone ? 
It seems not many days since thou wast heard, 
From out the mists of spring, with thy shrill not e. 
Calling upon thy mates — and their clear answers. 
The earth was brown then; and the infant leaves 
Had not put forth to warm them in the sun, 
Or play in the fresh air of heaven. Thy voice. 
Shouting in triumph, told of winter gone, 
And prophesying life to the sealed ground, 
Did make me glad with thoughts of coming beauties. 
And now they 're all around us, — offspring bright 
Of earth, — a mother, who, with constant care. 
Doth feed and clothe them all. — Now o'er her fields, 
In blessed bands, or single, they are gone. 
Or by her brooks they stand, and sip the stream; 
Or peering o'er it, — vanity well feigned — 
In quaint approval seem to glow and nod 
At their reflected graces. — Morn to meet, 
They in fantastic labors pass the night, 
Catching its dews, and rounding silvery drops 
To deck their bosoms. — There, on high, bald trees, 
From varnished cells some peep, and the old boughs 
Make to rejoice and dance in warmer winds. 
Over my head the winds and they make music; 



106 THE DYING RAVEN. 

And grateful, in return for what they take, 
Bright hues and odours to the air they give. 

Thus mutual love brings mutual delight — 
Brings beauty, life; — for love is life — hate, death. 

TJiou Prophet of so fair a revelation ! 
Thou who abod'st with us the winter long. 
Enduring cold or rain, and shaking oft. 
From thy dark mantle, falling sleet or snow — 
Thou, who with purpose kind, when warmer days 
Shone on the earth, 'mid thaw and steam, cam'st 

forth 
From rocky nook, or wood, thy priestly cell, 
To speak of comfort unto lonely man — 
Didst say to him, — though seemingly alone 
'Mid wastes and snows, and silent, lifeless trees, 
Or the more silent ground — it was not death, 
But nature's sleep and rest, her kind repair; — 
That Thou, albeit unseen, didst bear with him 
The winter's night, and, patient of the day. 
And cheered by hope, (instinct divine in Thee,) 
Waitedst return of summer. 

More Thou saidst, 
Thou Priest of Nature, Priest of God, to man ! 
Thou spok'st of Faith, (than instinct no less sure,) 
Of Spirits near him, though he saw them not: 
Thou bad'st him ope his intellectual eye, 



THE DYING RAVEN. 107 

And see his solitude all populous: 

Thou showd'st him Paradise, and deathless flowers; 

And didst him pray to listen to the flow 

Of living waters. 

Preacher to man's spirit ! 
Emblem of Hope ! Companion ! Comforter ! 
Thou faithful one ! is this thine end? 'Twas thou, 
When summer birds were gone, and no form seen 
In the void air, who cam'st, living and strong. 
On thy broad, balanced pennons, through the winds. 
And of thy long enduring, this the close ! 
Thy kingly strength, thou Conqueror of storms. 
Thus low brought down. 

The year's mild,' cheering dawn 
Shone out on thee, a momentary light. 
The gales of spring upbore thee for a day. 
And then forsook thee. Thou art fallen now; 
And liest among thy hopes and promises — 
Beautiful flowers, and freshly springing blades, 
Gasping thy life out. • — Here for thee the grass 
Tenderly makes a bed; and the young buds 
In silence open their fair, painted folds — 
To ease thy pain, the one — to cheer thee, these. 
But thou art restless;, and thy once keen eye 
Is dull and sightless now. New blooming boughs, 
Needlessly kind, have spread a tent for thee. 
Thy mate is calling to the white, piled clouds, 
And asks for thee. They give no answer back. 
As I look up to their bright angel faces, 



108 THE DYING RAVEN. 

Intelligent and capable of voice 

They seem to me. Their silence to my soul 

Comes ominous. The same to thee, doomed bird, 

Silence or sound. For thee there is no sound, 

No silence. — Near thee stands the shadow, Death; — 

And now he slowly draws his sable veil 

Over thine eyes; thy senses softly lulls 

Into unconscious slumbers. The airy call 

Thou 'It hear no longer; 'neath sun-lighted clouds. 

With beating wing, or steady poise aslant, 

Wilt sail no more. Around thy trembling claws 

Droop thy wings' parting feathers. Spasms of death 

Are on thee. 

Laid thus low by age } Or is 't 
All-grudging man has brought thee to this end? 
Perhaps the slender hair, so subtly wound 
Around the grain God gives thee for thy food. 
Has proved thy snare, and makes thine inward pain. 

I needs must mourn for thee. For I, who have 
No fields, nor gather into garners — I 
Bear thee both thanks and love, not fear nor hate. 

And now, farewell ! The falling leaves ere long 
Will give thee decent covering. Till then, 
Thine own black plumage, that will now no more 
Glance to the sun, nor flash upon my eyes. 
Like armour of steeled knight of Palestine, 
Must be thy pall. Nor will it moult so soon 



THE DYING RAVEN. 109 

As sorrowing thoughts on those borne from him, fade 
In living man. 

Who scoffs these sympathies. 
Makes mock of the divinity within; 
Nor feels he gently breathing through his soul 
The universal spirit. — Hear it cry, 
*'How does thy pride abase thee, man, vain man ! 
How deaden thee to universal love. 
And joy of kindred with all humble things, — 
God's creatures all ! " 

And surely it is so. 
He who the lily clothes in simple glory, 
He who doth hear the ravens cry for food. 
Hath on our hearts, with hand invisible. 
In signs mysterious, written what alone 
Our hearts may read. —Death bring thee rest, poor 
Bird. 



FRAGMENT OF AN EPISTLE. 



WRITTEN WHILE RECOVERING FROBI SEVERE ILLNESS. 



No more, my friend, 



A weary ear I urge you lend 
My tale of sickness, aches I 've borne 
From closing day to breaking morn — 
Long wintry nights and days of pain — 
Sharp pain. 'Tis past; and I would fain 
My languor cheer with grateful thought 
On Him who to this frame has brought 
Soothing and rest; who, when there rose 
Within my bosom's dull repose 
A troubled memory of wrong 
Done in health's day, when passions strong 
Swayed me, — repentance spoke and peace, 
Hope, and from dark remorse release. 

Lonely, in thought, I travelled o'er 
Days past, and joys to come no more; 
Sat watching the low beating fire. 
And saw its flames shoot up, expire. 



FRAGMENT OF AN EPISTLE. Ill 

Like cheerful thoughts that glance their light 
Athwart the mind, and then 'tis night. 

For ever night ? — The Eternal One, 
With sacred fire from forth his throne. 
Has touched my heart. O! fail it not 
When days of health shall be my lot. 

Beside me, Patience, suffering's child. 
With gentle voice, and aspect mild, 
Sat chanting to me song so holy, 
A song to soothe my melancholy; 
Won me to learn of her to bear 
Sorrows, and pains, and all that wear 
Our hearts — me, chained by sickness, taught, 
'' Prisoner to none the free of thought: " 
A truth subHme, but slowly learned 
By one who for earth's freshness yearned. 

From open air and ample sky 
Pent up — thus doomed for days to lie, 
Was trial hard to me, a stranger 
To long confinement, me, a ranger 
Through bare or leafy wood, o'er hill, 
O'er field, by shore, or by the rill 
When taking hues from bending flowers, 
Or stealing dark by crystal bowers 
Built up by Winter on its bank, 
Of branches shot from vapor dank: 
And hard to sit, and see boys slide 
O'er crusted plain stretched smooth and wide. 



112 FRAGMENT OP AN EPISTLE. 

Or down the steep and shining drift, 
With shout and call, shoot light and swift. 

But I could stand at set of sun, 
And see the snow he shone upon 
Change to a path of glory, — see 
The rainbow hues 'twixt him and me — 
Orange, and green, and golden light: 
I thought on that celestial sight. 
That city seen by aged John, 
City with walls of precious stone. 
Brighter and brighter grew the road 
'Twixt me and the descending God; 
And while I yearned to tread its length, 
Down went the Sun, in all his strength. 

And gone 's his path like the steps of light 
By angels trod at dead of night, 
While Jacob slept. Around my room 
The shadows deepen; while the gloom 
Visits my soul, in converse high 
Lifted but now, when heaven was nigh. 

Why could not I, in spirit, raise 
Pillar of Bethel to his praise 
Who blessed me, and free worship pay. 
Like Isaac's son upon his way? 
Are holy thoughts but happy dreams 
Chased by despair, as starry gleams 
By clouds.'* — Nay, turn, and read thy mind; 
Nay, look on Nature's face and find - 



FRAGMENT OF AN EPISTLE. 113 

Kind, gentle graces, thoughts to raise 
The tired spirit — hope and praise. 

O, kind to me, in darkest hour 
She led me forth with gentle power, 
From lonely thought, from sad unrest, 
To peace of mind, and to her breast 
The son, who always loved her, prest; 
Called up the moon to cheer me; laid 
Its silver light on bank and glade. 
And bade it throw mysterious beams 
O'er ice-clad hill — which steely gleams 
Sent back — a knight who took his rest. 
His burnished shield above his breast. 
The fence of long, rough rails, that went 
O'er trackless snows, a beauty lent; 
Glittered each cold and icy bar 
Beneath the moon like shafts of war. 
And there a lovely tracery 
Of branch and twig that naked tree 
Of shadows soft and dim has wove, 
And spread so gently, that above 
The pure white snow it seems to float 
Lighter than that celestial boat. 
The silver-beaked moon, on air, — - 
Lighter than feathery gossamer; 
As if its darkening touch, through fear, 
It held from thing so saintly clear. 
8 



114 FRAGMENT OF AN EPISTLE. 

Thus nature threw her beauties round me; 
Thus from the gloom in which she found me^ 
She won me by her simple graces, 
She wooed me with her happy faces, 

Theday is closed; and I refrain 
From further talk. But if of pain 
It has beguiled a weary hour, 
If to my desert mind, like shower. 
That wets the parching earth, has come 
A cheerful thought, and made its home 
With me awhile, I 'd have you share. 
Who feel for me in ills I bear. 



THE PLEASURE BOAT. 



Come, hoist the sail, the fast let gol 
They 're seated side by side ; 

Wave chases wave in pleasant flow: 
The bay is fair and wide. 

II. 

The ripples lightly tap the boat. 

Loose ! — Give her to the wind! 
She shoots ahead: — They 're all afloat: 

The strand is far behind. 

III. 

No danger reach so fair a crew! 

Thou goddess of the foam, 
I '11 ever pay thee worship due, 

If thou wilt bring them home. 

IV. 

Fair ladies, fairer than the spray 

The prow is dashing wide. 
Soft breezes take you on your way, 

Soft flow the blessed tide! 



116 THE PLEASURE BOAT. 

V. 

O, might I like those breezes be, 
And touch that arching brow, 

I 'd toil for ever on the sea 
Where ye are floating now. 

VI. 

The boat goes tilting on the waves; 

The waves go tilting by; 
There dips the duck; — her back she laves; 

O'er head the sea-gulls fly. 

VII. 

Now, like the gulls that dart for prey. 

The little vessel stoops; 
Now rising, shoots along her way. 

Like them, in easy swoops. 

VIII. 

The sun-light falling on her sheet, 

It glitters like the drift 
Sparkling in scorn of summer's heat, 

High up some mountain rift. 

IX. 

The winds are fresh ; she 's driving fast 

Upon the bending tide. 
The crinkling sail, and crinkling mast. 

Go with her side by side. 



« 



THE PLEASURE BOAT, 117 

X. 

Why dies the breeze away so soon? 

Why hangs the pennant down ? 
The sea is glass; the sun at noon. ■— 

— Nay, lady, do not frown; 

XL 

For, see, the winged fisher's plume 

Is painted on the sea: 
Below, a cheek of lovely bloom. 

— Whose eyes look up at thee ? 

XII. 

She smiles; thou need'st must smile on her. 

And, see, beside her face 
A rich, white cloud that doth not stir. — . 

What beauty, and what grace ! 

XIII. 

And pictured beach of yellow sand, 

And peaked rock, and hill. 
Change the smooth sea to fairy land. — = 

How lovely and how still! 

XIV. 

From that far isle the thresher's flail 

Strikes close upon the ear; 
The leaping fish, the swinging sail 

Of yonder sloop sound near. 



118 THE PLEASURE BOAT- 

XV. 

The parting sun sends out a glow 

Across the placid bay, 
Touching with glory all the show. — 

— A breeze ! — Up helm ! — Away ! 

XVI. 

Careening to the wind, they reach, 
With laugh and call, the shore. 

They 've left their foot-prints on the beach ; 
But them I hear no more. 

XVII. 

Goddess of Beauty, must I now 

Vowed worship to thee pay.'^ 
Dear goddess, I grow old, I trow: — 

My head is growing gray. 



THE EARLY SPRING BROOK. 



Well nigh a year, swift running Brook, is past 
Since I, upon thy fresh green side. 
Stood here, and saw thy waters glide. 

But not, as now they flow, rough, turbid, fast. 



II. 



'T was twilight then ; and Dian hung her bow 
Low down the west; and there a star. 
Kindly on thee and me, from far, 

Looked out, and blessed us through the passing glow. 



III. 



A goodly fellowship of day and night; 

The day, the moon, the stars, in one — 
Night scarcely come, day scarcely gone — 

In mutual love they shed harmonious light. 



120 THE EARLY SPRING BROOK. 

IV. 

It fell in peace upon thy face, fair brook, — 
The glittering starlight, paler moon, 
Day's last, warm glow: but that full soon 

Faded, e'en while I stood to feel and look. 

V. 

And then thy tiny beach, no longer red. 
Took from the other lamps its hue, 
As star on star, in order due, 

Came out and lighted up thy pebbly bed. 

VI. 

The ground-bird in thy bank had made her nest. 
She sat and dreamed about her brood, 
And where next day to gather food; 

And with thy song well soothed, she took her rest, 

VII, 

It pained me that my footsteps caused her fear; 

For I had come with weary heart 

To sit with her and take a part 
In star and moon, and thy low song to hear. 

VIII. 

Fly not the broken-hearted. Bird ! I crave 

Thy innocence, thy gentle trust. 

Chirp by me now, and when I 'm dust. 
Come, make thy habitation by my grave. 



THE EARLY SPRING BROOK. 121 



IX. 



So wished I then ; and more my spirit spoke ; 
And hopes and wishes, mingling, said, 
Thou shalt within thy grave be laid 

Ere other spring return: — My heart was broke. 



X. 



Yet still, more sad and lonely, here I tread 
Thy banks again, unfettered Brook. 
Now, by the living I 'm forsook : — 

Before, I mourned your loss alone, ye dead. 



XL 



The cords of sympathy nigh all untied ! 
And when I raise an eye by chance. 
The half-hid sneer, the sidelong glance 

Say, Not of us ! — Would I had long since died ! 



XII. 



And those of hearts of all too gentle mould 
To pain the pained, by silence say, 
We ne'er can walk the self-same way! 

And shake them loose, where all my hopes took hold. 



XIII. 



Why, I can bear hot anger and the frown — 
Much better far than feigned regard — 
I mind them not; they make me hard; 

But severed and yet kind ! — it weighs me down. 



122 THE EARLY SPRING BROOK. 

XIV. 

Come, teach me patience then, O Thou, for whom, 

I take this sorrow to my breast; 

Speak to me, give my spirit rest. 
And make me ready for the last great doom. 

XV. 

Here, too, there has been sadness since that I 

Last talked with thee. Thy banks were green. 
Bright reeds and flowers no more are seen. 

And where are they.'^ Alas, do they, too, die.^ 

XVI. 

Thou then wast all o'er beauty, softness, youth; 

In self-wove garments mad'st thee gay; 

Didst play and dance by night and day; 
But now ! — How simple nature teaches truth ! 

XVII. 

Thy cold, damp, frost-bound bank is like a rock; 
Thy green, unsightly brown; and bare 
The stems that made and took a share 

Of beauty with Thee: — all have felt the shock. 

XVIII. 

A frost like death came in and changed the face 
Of tree and herb. Up rose the wind. 
And loud and strong, with fury blind, 

Broke through, nor of thy beauty left a trace. 



THE EARLY SPRING BROOK. 123 

XIX. 

Awhile it roared; the faded leaves it tost, 
Then dashed them in thy face in scorn; 
'T is I, it said, thy bowers have torn ! 

And, rushing on, far in the woods was lost. 

XX. 

Thus ended thy bright festival. Thy hall, — 
The place of song and dance before — 
Silent and barred its icy door; 

And o'er Thee winter threw his cold, white pall. 

XXI. 

Its folds unwrapped, thy doors now open thrown, 
Drops from the shelving ice fall fast; 
The light, too, shining in at last, 

Shows straws and leaves along thy bottom strown. 

XXII. 

But soon thy channel will again run clear 
Along thy clean and pebbly bed. 
The spring flowers on thy brim be fed. 

And earth's and thy own music Thou shalt hear. 

XXIII. 

Thou 'It be too merry then to mind the sigh 
Heaved by the lonely, broken heart. 
Though near Thee. Here, then, let us part, 

For there 's no spring for joys like mine, that die. 



124 THE EARLY SPRING BROOK. 

XXIV. 

The blasted spirit of fond, thoughtful men 
Can feel no second earthly youth: 
Their sorrows share the strength of truth. 

— At leaf-fall, Brook, I '11 visit thee again. 



"THE CHANTING CHERUBS." 



This group, executed by H. Greenough, for J. F. Cooper, give you a 
feeling of unmingled happiness as soon as you cast your eyes upon them. 
The two little creatures are themselves instinct with it 5 and no sadness 
creeps over your spirit, as it does when you look upon a child ; for then comes 
in the thought of frailty ; and you know that when the sun opens that bud, 
the dew of its youth will dry up, and that it will fade soon, and all its fresh- 
ness and odour be lost. But these little beings seem to have lighted here 
from a better world, where happiness is as lasting as it is pure. And so busy 
and pleased are they in their song of praise, as not at all to heed us poor 
creatures, who stand gazing on them — blessed spirits ! 

The execution of this group is not inferior to the conception, and Mr. 
Greenough shows himself to be a close student of nature, and to have a 
hand as true as his eye. What flesh, too ! you are almost persuaded that it 
will yield to your touch. The action, also, and the dependent attitude of 
the younger Cherub is beautifully contrasted with the more erect posture and 
the repose of the older figure. Not the least pleasing thought connected with 
this work of art, is, that while so many men of genius disgrace themselves 
by envyings and detraction, this group was executed by the first American 
Sculptor, for one who, with C. B. Brown, stands at the head of American 
Novelists. 

It is a sin against God, and a base vice, to envy another his excellence. 
If man would remember and feel the words. It is not of yourselves : it is the 
gift of God, he would be humble, and able to rejoice in another's well doing. 



Whence came ye. Cherubs? from the moon.^ 

Or from a shining star? 
Ye, sure, are sent, a blessed boon. 
From kinder worlds afar; 
For while I look, my heart is all delight: * 
Earth has no creatures half so pure and bright. 



126 THE CHANTING CHERUBS. 

II. 

From moon, nor star, we hither flew; 

The moon doth w^ane away; 
The stars — they pale at morning dew: 
We're children of the day; 
Nor change, nor night, was ever ours to bear; 
Eternal light, and love, and joy, we share. 

III. 

Then, sons of light, from Heaven above, 

Some blessed news ye bring. 
Come ye to chant eternal love, 
And tell how angels sing, 
And in your breathing, conscious forms to show 
How purer forms above, live, breathe, and glow? 

IV. 

Our parent is a human mind; 

His winged thoughts are we ; 
To sun, nor stars, are we confined: 
We pierce the deepest sea. 
Moved by a Brother's call, our Father bade 
Us light on earth: and here our flight is stayed. 



THE MOSS SUPPLICATETH FOR 
THE POET. 



Though I am humble, slight me not, 
But love me for the Poet's sake; 

Forget me not till he 's forgot; 

I, care or slight, with him would take. 

n. 

For oft he passed the blossoms by, 
And gazed on me with kindly look; 

Left flaunting flowers and open sky, 
And wooed me by the shady brook. 

m. 

And like the brook his voice was low: 
So soft, so sad the words he spoke, 

That with the stream they seemed to flow: 
They told me that his heart was broke; - 

IV. 

They said, the world he fain would shun. 
And seek the still and twilight wood — 

His spirit, weary of the sun, 

In humblest things found chiefest good; 



128 THE MOSS SUPPLICATETH FOR THE POET. 

V. 

That I was of a lowly frame, 

And far more constant than the flower. 
Which, vain with many a boastful name, 

But fluttered out its idle hour; 

VI. 

That I was kind to old decay, 

And wrapt it softly round in green. 

On naked root, and trunk of gray. 
Spread out a garniture and screen: — 

VII. 

They said, that he was withering fast, 
Without a sheltering friend like me; 

That on his manhood fell a blast, 
And left him bare, like yonder tree; 

VIII. 

That spring would clothe his boughs no more. 
Nor ring his boughs with song of bird — 

Sounds like the melancholy shore 

Alone were through his branches heard. 

IX. 

Methought, as then, he stood to trace 
The withered stems, there stole a tear — 

That I could read in his sad face, — 
Brothers, our sorrows make us near. 



THE MOSS SUPPLICATETII FOR THE POET. 129 

X. 

And then he stretched him all along, 
And laid his head upon my breast, 

Listening the water's peaceful song. 
How glad was I to tend his rest ! 

XI. 

Then happier grew his soothed soul. 

He turned and watched the sunlight play 
Upon my face, as in it stole, 

Whispering, Above is brighter day! 

XII. 

He praised my varied hues — the green. 
The silver hoar, the golden, brown; 

Said, Lovelier hues were never seen; 
Then gently prest my tender down. 

XIIL 

And where I sent up little shoots. 

He called them trees, in fond conceit: 

Like silly lovers in their suits 

He talked, his care awhile to cheat. 

XIV. 

I said, I 'd deck me in the dews. 

Could I but chase away his care. 
And clothe me in a thousand hues. 

To bring him joys that I might share. 
9 



130 THE MOSS SUPPLICATETH FOR THE POET. 
XV. 

He answered, earth no blessing had 
To cure his lone and aching heart — 

That I was one, when he was sad, 
Oft stole him from his pain, in part. 

XVI. 

But e'en from thee, he said I go, 

To meet the world, its care and strife, 
No more to watch this quiet flow. 
Or spend with thee a gentle life. 

XVII. 

And yet the brook is gliding on. 
And I, without a care, at rest. 

While back to toiling life he 's gone. 
Where finds his head no faithful breast. 

XVIII. 

Deal gently with him, world, I pray; 

Ye cares, like softened shadows come; 
His spirit, well nigh worn away. 

Asks with ye but awhile a home. 

XIX. 

O, may I live, and when he dies 
Be at his feet a humble sod; 

O, may I lay me where he lies^ 
To die when he awakes in God! 



^ 



A CLUMP OF DAISIES. 



Ye daisies gay, 

This fresh spring day 
Close gathered here together, 

To play in the light, 

To sleep all the night. 
To abide through the sullen weather; 

II. 

Ye creatures bland, 

A simple band. 
Ye free ones, linked in pleasure. 

And linked when your forms 

Stoop low in the storms. 
And the rain comes down without measure ; 

III. 

When wild clouds fly 

Athwart the sky. 
And ghostly shadows, glancing, 

Are darkening the gleam 

Of the hurrying stream. 
And your close, bright heads gaily dancing; 



132 A CLUMP OF DAISIES. 

iv. 

Though dull awhile, 

Again ye smile; 
For, see, the warm sun breaking; 

The stream 's going glad. 

There 's nothing now sad. 
And the small bird his song is waking. 

V. 

The dewdrop sip 

With dainty lip ! 
The sun is low descended. 

And, Moon ! softly fall 

On troop true and small ! 
Sky and earth in one kindly blended. 

VI. 

And, Morning ! spread 

Their jewelled bed 
With lights in the east sky springing ! 

And, Brook ! breathe around 

Thy low murmured sound ! 
May they move, ye Birds, to your singing ! 

VII. 

For in their play 

I hear them say. 
Here, man, thy wisdom borrow: 

In heart be a child, 

In word, true and mild: 
Hold hy faith, come joy, or come sorrow. 



CHANTREY'S WASHINGTON. 



" And thou art home again in marble ! 
Remembered be thy name in poets' story, 
Who led the land through fire and blood to glory ; - 
Our Father, next to Him in heaven ! " 



I. 

Father and Chief, how calm thou stand'st once more 
Upon thine own free land, thou won'st through toil ! 
Seest thou upon thy Country's robe a soil, 
As she comes down to greet thee on the shore ? 

II. 

For thought in that fine brow is living still — - 
Such thought, as looking far off into time. 
Casting by fear, stood up in strength sublime. 
When odds in war shook vale and shore and hill --^ 

III. 

Such thought as then possessed thee, when was laid 
Our deep foundation — when the fabric shook 
With the wrathful surge which high against it broke — 
When at thy voice the blind, wild sea was stayed. 



134 CHANTREY's WASHINGTON. 

IV. 

Hast heard our strivings, that thou look'st away 
Into the future, pondering still our fate 
With thoughtful mind? Thou readest, sure, the date 
To strifes — thou seest a glorious coming day; 

V. 
For round those lips dwells sweetness, breathing good 
To sad men's souls, and bidding them take heart, 
Nor live the shame of those who bore their part 
When round their towering ^Saul they banded stood. 

VI. 

'No swelling pride in that firm, ample chest ! 
The full rich robe falls round thee, fold on fold, 
With easy grace, in thy scarce conscious hold : 
How simple in thy grandeur — strong in rest ! 

VII. 
'T is like thee: Such repose thy living form 
Wrapt round. Though some chained passion, break- 
ing forth. 
At times swept o'er thee like the fierce, dread north, 
Yet calmer, nobler cam'st thou from the storm. 

VIII. 
O, mystery past thought ! that the cold stone 
Should live to us, take shape, and to us speak ^ — 
That he, in mind, in grandeur like the Greek, 
And he, our pride, stand here, the two in one ! 

* Saul, " from his shoulders and upward was higher than any of the people." 



CHANTREy's WASHINGTON. 135 

IX. 

There 's awe in thy still form. Come hither, then, 
Ye that o'erthrong the land, and ye shall know 
What greatness is, nor please ye in its show — 
Come, look on him, would ye indeed be men ! 



THE LITTLE BEACH BIRD. 



Thou little bird, thou dweller by the sea, 
Why takest thou its melancholy voice? 
And with that boding cry 
Along the waves dost thou fly ? 
O! rather, Bird, with me 

Through the fair land rejoice! 

II. 

Thy flitting form comes ghostly dim and pale, 
As driven by a beating storm at sea; 
Thy cry is weak and scared, 
As if thy mates had shared 
The doom of us: Thy wail — 
What does it bring to me ? 

III. 

Thou call'st along the sand, and haunt'st the surge, 
Restless and sad; as if, in strange accord 
With the motion and the roar 
Of waves that drive to shore. 
One spirit did ye urge — 
The Mystery — The Word. 



THE LITTLE BEACH BIRI*. 137 



IV. 



Of thousands, thou, both sepulchre and pall, 
Old Ocean, art! A requiem o'er the dead, 
From out thy gloomy cells 
A tale of mourning tells — 
Tells of man's woe and fall, 
His sinless glory fled. 

V. 

Then turn thee, little bird, and take thy flight 
Where the complaining sea shall sadness bring 
Thy spirit never more. 
Come, quit with me the shore, 
For gladness and the light 
Where birds of summer sing. 



DAYBREAK. 



" The Pilgrim they laid in a large upper chamber, whose window opened 
towards the sun rising : the name of the chamber was Peace j where he 
slept till break of day, and then he awoke and sang." 

The PHcrrim''s Process. 



Now, brighter than the host that all night long, 

In fiery armour, far up in the sky 

Stood watch, thou com'st to wait the morning's song, 

Thou com'st to tell me day again is nigh. 

Star of the dawning ! Cheerful is thine eye ; 

And yet in the broad day it must grow dim. 

Thou seem'st to look on me, as asking why 

My mourning eyes with silent tears do swim; 

Thou bid^st me turn to God, and seek my rest in Him. 

II. 

Canst thou grow sad, thou say est, as earth grows 

bright } 
And sigh, when little birds begin discourse 
In quick, low voices, ere the streaming light 
Pours on their nests, from out the day's fresh source? 



DAYBREAK. 139 

With creatures innocent thou must perforce 

A sharer be, if that thine heart be pure. 

And holy hour like this, save sharp remorse, 

Of ills and pains of life must be the cure, 

And breathe in kindred calm, and teach thee to endure. 

III. 

I feel its calm. But there 's a sombrous hue. 

Edging that eastern cloud, of deep, dull red; 

Nor glitters yet the cold and heavy dew; 

And all the woods and hill-tops stand outspread 

With duskv licrhts, which warmth nor comfort shed. 

Still — save the bird that scarcely lifts its song — 

The vast world seems the tomb of all the dead — 

The silent city emptied of its throng, 

And ended, all alike, grief, mirth, love, hate and wrong. 

IV. 

But wrong, and hate, and love, and grief, and mirth 
Will quicken soon; and hard, hot toil and strife. 
With headlong purpose, shake this sleeping earth 
With discord strange, and all that man calls life. 
With thousand scattered beauties nature 's rife; 
And airs, and woods, and streams breathe harmonies : — 
Man weds not these, but taketh art to wife; 
Nor binds his heart with soft and kindly ties: — 
He, feverish, blinded, lives, and, feverish, sated, dies. 



140 DAYBREAK. 



It is because man useth so amiss 

Her dearest blessings, Nature seemeth sad; 

Else why should she in such fresh hour as this 

Not lift the veil, in revelation glad, 

From her fair face ? — It is that man is mad ! 

Then chide me not, clear Star, that I repine. 

When nature grieves; nor deem this heart is bad. 

Thou look'st toward earth; but yet the heavens are 

thine ; 
While I to earth am bound: — When will the heavens 

be mine? 

VI. 

If man would but his finer nature learn, 
And not in life fantastic lose the sense 
Of simpler things; could nature's features stern 
Teach him be thoughtful, then, with soul intense, 
I should not yearn for God to take me hence, 
But bear my lot, albeit in spirit bowed. 
Remembering humbly why it is, and whence: 
But when I see cold man of reason proud. 
My solitude is sad — I 'm lonely in the crowd. 

VII. 

But not for this alone, the silent tear 
Steals to mine eyes, while looking on the morn, 
Nor for this solemn hour: fresh life is near; — 
But all my joys ! — they died when newly born. 



DAYBREAK. 141 

Thousands will wake to joy; while I, forlorh, 

And like the stricken deer, with sickly eye 

Shall see them pass. Breathe calm — my spirit 's torn; 

Ye holy thoughts, lift up my soul on high ! — 

Ye hopes of things unseen, the far-off world bring nigh. 

VIII. 

And when I grieve, O, rather let it be 
That I — whom nature taught to sit with her 
On her proud mountains, by her rolling sea — 
Who when the winds are up, with mighty stir 
Of woods and waters — feel the quick 'ning spur 
To my strong spirit; — who, as my own child, 
Do love the flower, and in the ragged bur 
A beauty see — that I this mother mild 
Should leave, and go with care, and passions fierce 
and wild ! 



IX. 

How suddenly that straight and glittering shaft, 

Shot 'thwart the earth ! In crown of living fire 

Up comes the Day ! As if they conscious quaft — 

The sunny flood, hill, forest, city spire 

Laugh in the wakening light. — Go, vain desire ! 

The dusky lights are gone; go thou thy way ! 

And pining discontent, like them, expire ! 

Be called my chamber. Peace, when ends the day; 

And let me with the dawn, like Pilgrim, sing and pray. 



PROSE WRITINGS, 



THE WRITER OF THE IDLE MAN, 



TO HIS OLD FRIENDS. 



Let me say, first of all, that although 1 address you in this 
letter, as the writer of '' The Idle Man," I have concluded (I 
hardly know why) to drop the title, in bringing the contents of 
that work once more before the public. 

It is a little over ten years since I sent forth ray last number 
of the Idle Man. It was the first number of an intended 
second volume : I had not long before closed the first volume, in 
these words : — '^ It is a pleasant thing to have our lonely labours 
helped on by the remembrance that they have met with kind 
encouragement, and by the belief that they will meet with still 
more." In this belief, however, I was mistaken ; and I found 
it necessary to stop the work. It was painful to do so ; for the 
continual stimulus of an interesting purpose before me, kept the 
mind clear and active, and the spirits elastic under the weight 
that pressed upon them. It is true that I had disagreeable things 
to encounter ; as what man has not who is somewhat newly 
before the public ? especially if he discovers individuality of 
character, earnestness of feeling, and a steady reliance upon his 
own opinions and tastes. 

I should, indeed, have been wanting to myself, had I suffered 
these obstructions to trouble me, any further than they stopped 
the way to needed pecuniary success. And, why should they 
have troubled me further ? I never much affected notoriety ; so, 
there were no ambitious desires to be crossed on that road. I 
had the approbation of those whose opinions I had always held 
in honour ; and what was far better and more heart-comforting, 
I had their sympathy and their love. Last of all, let me be 
allowed to say, that I could not feel such an inferiority to 
10 



146 



those who were given to fault-finding, as to be shaken in my 
humble trust in those powers with which God had seen fit to 
bless me. 

I have alluded to these things, to account for a long silence, 
seldom broken. For though I cannot bow to a certain dicta- 
torial manner in which the claims of the public upon the indi- 
vidual are now-a-days apt to be asserted, yet I feel as much as 
any man the obligation upon each one to do, according to his 
ability, for that world in which the Creator has placed him. 

If 1 am now asked, what it is that encourages me to come 
once more before the public, notwithstanding my former disap- 
pointment ; I would answer, that I am better known now than 
I was then, and if I am not mistaken, proportionably, at least, 
more in favour 5 and that, although the majority are, for the 
present, running into physical pursuits, yet of those who keep 
their hold upon literature, there is a rapidly increasing class be- 
tween whose speculations, opinions, and tastes, and my own, 
I cun feel there is growing up a social and cheering agreement. 
And this is a delightful reflection to me ; for to feel solitary, 
even in that which is in itself innocent, is sad, and hurts our 
hearts too, if we keep not a watch over them. 

And, here, I would say : Let any one who has an inward con- 
viction that he holds the truth (no matter what the subject) 
gather strength from hence, and feel assured, that although the 
multitude immediately around him, with but a few exceptions, 
may differ from him, yet there are still seven thousand, some- 
where in Israel, who have not bowed the knee: — It is not 
strange that the united company around us should believe them- 
selves to be '' all the world ; " but it is strange that those who 
agree with them in little beside, should ever think them so too. 
I am aware that my writings may never make me, what is 
called, ^' a general favourite ;" and, if, from the study of myself 
and others, I had not long ago come to this conclusion, the con- 
cern for me of some well-meaning acquaintances would ere this 
*have led me to it. 

When, for instance, I have been heard to speak of that delight- 
ful gentleman, Mr. Geoffrey Crayon, so tender and moving, 
when he chooses to be so, yet so delicately blending the humor- 
ous with the sad, (a rare power, and one in which he has scarcely 
been surpassed since the days of the old dramatists,) and possess- 
ed withal, of such winning good-nature, and such grace, — I 



147 



have been suddenly interrupted by the question ; Why don't you 
write a few tales like Mr. Crayon's ? 

And, so, when I have spoken of Mr. Cooper, of his Leather 
Stocking, (a character hardly surpassed in modem fiction, if 
taken in its true order, through the three novels,) or, generally, 
of his naturalness, of his vivid and clear description, his rapid 
action and lightning-like revelation of passion, — 1 have been 
asked, with the utmost simplicity, why I did not undertake a 
novel after Mr. Cooper's manner. 

And what, I have replied, would Mr. Crayon have brought 
to pass, had he, for instance, attempted to write like that extra- 
ordinary man, Charles Brockden Brown ? And where would 
Mr. Cooper have been by this time, had he followed in the foot- 
steps of Mr. Crayon, over smooth lawns, and by bright prat- 
tling brooks, or the little calm-surfaced, heaven-reflecting lake ? 
I do much wonder whether some people ever heard of the 

word. Idiosyncrasy. And I wonder, might exclaim Mr. , 

whether they ever heard of the word. Phrenology. 

I know not how it may be with others ; but if I am to 

write fiction, which shall have in it the character and the 

force of truth, it must, in very deed, he truth to me, at the time. 

I have left out of the present volume all the articles in the 

Idle Man which were not from my own pen. 

Separating from my own that with which my friends furnished 
me, is like parting with old companions. ^^ The Hypochon- 
driac " must here take his leave of the world, for the present, 
and the public must give up a little more good prose, and some 
true poetry. But the poetry from Mr. Bryant they will not 
lose; — that they will find lying amongst his other beautiful 
and precious things in the work which he not long ago gave to 
the world. 

But, '• The West Wind ! " the title of the last thing which he 
wrote for me — I must part with that too. If it had been writ- 
ten purposely to follow '^ Paul Felton," it could not have been 
more appropriate, it breathed such a calm through one, after 
witnessing the struggles of that wretched man. Beautiful as it 
is in itself, it will never be the same gentle air to me any where 
else ; nor will the pines give out that same saddening, yet sooth- 
ing murmur which they did when they grew by the graves of 
Paul and Esther : — I wish they were growing there still ! 

Will my old friends allow me to close with a word to those 
whom I hope before long to call my young friends ^ 



148 



Some who were members of one or another of our many col- 
leges when the Idle Man appeared, have since told me, that 
could I have known of the interest which was taken in it at 
those institutions, and the feelings it called out towards me, I 
should not have given it up as I did. I think I should not have 
done so ; for I have always looked with deep interest upon the 
early forming of the moral and intellectual character ; and the 
love of the young for me takes a strong hold upon my heart. 
And when I remember what seeds of affection and sentiment, 
of poetry and ail spiritual aspirations, are sown in the young, to 
germinate, or to die, as the sun and dews may fall on them, or 
not, I cannot but have a deep sensation of delight, that any 
thing of mine should have ever so little of these unfolding in- 
fluences upon them. 

I shall never forget with what feeling my friend Bryant some 
years ago described to me the effect produced upon him by his 
meeting for the first time with Wordsworth's Ballads. He 
lived, when quite young, where but few works of poetry were 
to be had, at a period, too, when Pope was still the great idol in 
the Temple of Art, He said, that upon opening Wordsworth, a 
thousand springs seemed to gush up at once in his heart, and 
the face of nature, of a sudden, to change into a strange fresh- 
ness and life. He had felt the sympathetic touch from an ac- 
cording mind, and you see how instantly his powers and affec- 
tions shot over the earth and through his kind. 

If I could, in my humble way, awaken some young man, of 
however inferior powers to our delightful poet, to a sensation 
in any poor degree like this, I should bless God for it the re- 
mainder of my days. 

Too many of the young of this time, do need awakening; for 
this is hardly the age of profound philosophy, of lofty imagina- 
tion, or of deep and simple sentiment. But although the age 
is generally wanting in these respects, there are a few minds of 
a noble order rising up, not only abroad, but even in this land; 
and as they ascend, I can see their intellectual rays, while I 
watch them at a humble distance, stretching out more and more ; 
and ere long they will touch the one the other, and make one 
common light, that shall flood all lands. A more spiritual phi- 
losophy than man ever before looked on, and a poetry twin 
with it, are fast coming into full life. Yes, a day of far-spread- 
ing splendour is breaking ; the clear streak of it is already in the 



149 



east, and the earth, even now, here and there touched by it, and 
yonder, '' the dawning hills ! " 

Why, my young friends, I well remember the time when 
Wordsworth — the great Wordsworth — served for little else 
than travesty to the witling, smartness to the reviewer, and for 
a sneer to the fastidious pretender to taste ; and when, too, the 
philosophy of Coleridge was held as little better than a dream. 
But now, he who cannot relish Wordsworth, is advised to be- 
take himself to the Annuals ; and the man who is unable to 
enter into the deep things of Coleridge, though he may pass for 
an alert dialectician, must no longer think of dictating from the 
philosopher's chair : To profess to differ from Coleridge may be 
safe, but to profess to hold him to be incomprehensible, would 
now savour less of a profession than a confession, to be kept for 
the ear of some ghostly father alone. 

To bring my unintentionally long letter to a close. — In 
sending this volume into the world, the Prose goes forth as an 
elder brother, with his sister. Poetry. She, it is true, is not the 
child of my youth, yet not wanting, I hope, in the feelings of 
youth, nor altogether without sentiment and imagination, and 
an eye for nature, and a love of it, though lacking, 1 am sensible, 
something of that melody of voice and that harmony of expres- 
sion, which so win upon us unawares, and by the opposite of 
which finely attuned spirits are so apt to be pained. 

I will not affect an indifference which I do not feel. I have 
an earnest desire for the success of this volume, and to that end, 
for a generally good opinion of it, although in estimating what 
is my own, as well as what belongs to others, the opinion of the 
many is of less weight with me, than the judgment of the few. 

To be liked of those whose hearts and minds I esteem, would 
be unspeakable comfort to me, and would open sympathies with 
them in my nature, which lie deep in the immortal part of me, 
and which, therefore, though beginning in time, will doubtless 
live on in eternity. To such hearts and minds I now humbly, 
but especially commend myself. 



TOM THORNTON, 



— and prudent counsels fled ; 
And bounteous Fancy, for his glowing mind, 
Wrought various scenes, and all of glorious kind. 

CHABBSt 

— Eemorse 
-^ defeated pride, 
Prosperity subverted, maddening want. 
Friendship betrayed, affection unreturned, 
Love with despair, or grief in agony. 

Wordsworth. 

Or to the restless sea and roaring wind, 
Gave the strong yearnings of a ruined mind. 

Crabbe. 



*'Why, Mr. Thornton, are you dreaming?" said 
Mrs. Thornton, trying to appear easy, and dropping 
in her lap her work, which she had not set a stitch to 
for the last half hour. — '* I can't see to thread my 
needle, for the wick has run up, till it looks like a 
very cock's comb, and the fire is so low, that I hardly 
feel the end of my fingers. ' T is exceedingly chilly 
about the room — pray give me my shawl, or I shall 
perish." 

*' Do as other wise people do, my dear; look back 
a little, and you will find your shawl on the bars of 
your chair. As to the candle, I will see to that; and 



152 TOM THORNTON. 

if I could take the coxcomb from our Tom's head as 
easily, it would be equally well for your sight." 

'' Ha! ha! Now, Mr. Thornton, you should'nt try 
to be witty when you 're vexed. You don't know 
what bungling work angry folks make at wit." 

'' True, my dear, — much the same as fond ones, at 
government." 

Mr. Thornton took his feet down from the side of 
the fire-place, and put his spectacles on his nose, at 
the same time looking sharply through them, with 
his gray eyebrows thrown into double arches. 

'' Upon my word, Mr. Thornton, I 'm glad you're 
at home again; for you sat there playing your spec- 
tacles between your fingers, with nothing but a gruff 
hum, now and then, as if you were miles ofi* in the 
woods, and contriving how to clear your wild lands." 

'' I have enough growing wild at my own door to 
see to, without taking to the woods, and harder to 
bring into order, than any soil my trees grow upon, 
however stubborn." 

Mrs. Thornton saw that she could not rid herself 
of the difiiculty by laughing. She coloured and re- 
mained silent. She was conscious of being too 
indulgent to her son; and might, perhaps, have been 
brought to a wiser course towards him, had not her 
husband's impatience of her weakness, and vehement 
opposition to her folly, and a consequent harshness in 
his bearing towards Tom, created a kind of party 
feeling within her, which, with a common sort of 
sophistry, she resolved wholly into pity for her child. 
This was a bad situation for the boy, for the weak- 
ness of his mother's conduct was easily perceived by 
him, and looked upon with a little of contempt, at the 
same time that it made for his convenience ; while his 



TOM THORNTON. 153 

father's sternness, which kept him in check, and 
which he would gladlj have been rid of, commanded 
a qualified respect. This led him to like what was 
agreeable, rather than what was right, and to lose the 
distinction of principle in self-gratification. And 
though all selfishness hardens the heart, there is no kind 
of it which so hardens it as a contempt for those who 
love us, and are fondly, though unwisely, contribut- 
ing to our pleasures. To hate our enemies is not so 
bad as to despise our friends. The cold, hard tri- 
umph of prosperity is a worse sin than that which eats 
into us in the rancour of adversity ; audit is more decep- 
tive too; for good fortune has something joyous in it, 
even to the morose, who oftentimes mistake their 
gladness for a general good will, while they play with 
the miseries of some, only to make others laugh. 

Even vehement and inconsiderate tempers, who 
take fire as quick in another's cause as in their own, 
lose their generosity, where too much is ministered 
to their will; and what was only a warm resentment 
of another's wrong, may come to be nothing else, but 
a feeling of power and a love of victory. 

Mr. Thornton saw the confused expression in his 
wife's face, and his sharp, sudden look relaxed into 
one of mild and melancholy reproach, while she sat 
pricking her finger, as she tried to seem intent upon 
hurrying on her work. He pulled out his watch, and 
continued looking at it some time, taking an uneasy 
kind of delight in seeing the minute-hand go forward, 
and in wishing it later. 

'' It is not very late, I hope, Mr. Thornton." 

'' O, no, — but a little past one — a very reasonable 
hour for a boy to be out — and at a cockfight, too." 

'' But, Mr. Thornton, had you heard how earnestly 



154 TOM THORNTON. 

he importuned me, you would not wonder at my giv- 
ing him leave. He promised to return early. But 
boys, you know, never think of time when about their 
amusements." 

''It is not of much consequence that they should, 
when their amusements are so humane and innocent. 
A cockpit must be an excellent school for a lad of 
Tom's mild disposition." 

Some couples have particular points of union, but 
more have those of disagreement; and from the fre- 
quency with which both return to their several kinds, 
it would be hard to tell which kind affords the most 
pleasure. 

There was but one subject on which Mr. and Mrs. 
Thornton were at odds with each other, but to make 
up for the want of more, it was one of very frequent 
occurrence; and had not Tom suddenly made his 
appearance, there is no knowing how far the bitter 
taunting of the old gentleman would have gone. 

Tom entered the room, his crisp, black hair off his 
forehead, his swarthy complexion flushed with excite- 
ment from the conflict he had just witnessed; his 
mouth firmly set, his nostrils expanded, and his eye 
fiery and dilated. He had a marked cast of features, 
the muscles of his face worked strongly, and his mo- 
tions were hasty, impetuous, and threatening. His 
countenance was open and manly, and it seemed to 
depend upon the mere turn of circumstances whether 
he was to make a good, or a bad man. He was sur- 
prised, and a little abashed for a moment, at finding 
his father up. He looked at his mother, as if to say 
she had betrayed him; and his mother looked at him, 
as if to upbraid him for breaking his word by staying 
so late, and thus bringing his father's displeasure upon 
both. 



TOM THORNTON. 155 

*' I suppose that I may go to bed now, as you have 
seen fit to return home at last, my young gentleman? 
And did you bet on the winning cock, or are you to 
draw on me to pay off your dabt of honour?" 

'*I betted no higher than I had money to pay; " 
answered Tom, proudly: '* and I care not if I go with 
an empty pocket for a month to come, for he was a 
right gallant fellow I lost upon." 

Angry as his father was, the careless generosity of 
Tom's manner touched his pride. '' You are mala- 
pert. But this comes of late hours, and dissipation. 
We '11 have no more of it. Get you to bed, Sir; and 
look to it that you do not gaff the old rooster, — I '11 
have no blood spilt on my grounds." 

''Never without your leave. Sir," said Tom, his 
mouth drawing into a smile at his father's simplicity. 
And glad to be let off so easily, he went to bed, laugh- 
ing at the thought of their old dunghill, blind of one 
eye, dying game. '' They must have been but simple 
lads in my father's day," said Tom tc himself, as he 
blew out his candle, and threw himself into bed to 
dream over the fight. 

''Tom is not so bad a boy, neither," said Mr. 
Thornton, putting the fender before the fire, and pre- 
paring to go to bed. " And I see not why he should 
not make a proper man enough, were there no one to 
take all the pains in the world to spoil him." 

In a few minutes all was quiet in the house. 

Tom had now reached that age, in which it is pretty 
well determined whether the passions are to be our 
masters or servants. He had never thought for a 
moment of checking his; and if they were less vio- 
lent at one time than at another, it was because he 
was swayed for the instant by some gentler impulse, 



156 TOM THORNTON. 

and not that he was restrained by principle. His 
father's late mild treatment of him seemed to have a 
softening effect upon his disposition, and for a few 
days he appeared at rest, and free from starts of pas- 
sion. But some little incidents soon brought back his 
father's severity of manner, and this the son's spirit 
of opposition, the mother's weakness serving all the 
while as a temptation to his love of power . Every 
day occasioned a fresh difficulty. Tom decided all 
the disputes in the school, it mattered little with him 
whether by force or persuasion. And as he feared no 
one living, and generally sided with the weakest, 
partly from a love of displaying his daring and prow- 
ess, and partly from a hatred of all tyranny but his 
own, he frequently came home with his clothes torn 
and face bloody and bruised. This, however, might 
be said for Tom, he was the favourite of the smaller 
boys. He cared not to domineer, where it showed 
neither skill nor courage. His poor mother was filled 
with constant trembling and alarm, which served as a 
petty amusement to him; and, from the most violent 
rage, after one of these contests, he often broke out 
into a loud laugh at the plaintive sound of his moth- 
er's lament over him. 

Among Tom's other accomplishments, he was a 
great whip. So, without saying a word to any one, 
he contrived, with the assistance of a school-fellow as 
wild as himself, to put a young, fiery horse, which his 
father had just purchased, to a new gig. The horse 
was restiff" — Tom grew angry and whipped him — his 
companion was thrown out and broke his arm; but 
Tom, with the usual success of the active and daring, 
cleared himself unhurt. The gig, however, was 
dashed to pieces, and his father's fine horse ruined. 



TOM THORNTON. 157 

Not long after this, and before his father's anger 
had time to cool, Tom, with some of his play-mates, 
was concerned in breaking the windows of a miserly 
neighbour, that they might make him loosen his purse 
strings. One of the smallest boys was detected, and 
upon refusing to give information of the rest, the 
master began flogging him severely. Tom would have 
taken the whipping himself, but he knew this would 
not save the lad^ unless he made the others known; 
besides, he had an utter detestation of mean and* cow- 
ardly acts, and could not brook that the little fellow 
should be punished for not turning traitor. Tom sprung 
upon his seat, and crying out, '' A rescue ! " was fol- 
lowed by the other boys; and in an instant the master 
was brought to the floor. Lying upon one's back is 
not a favorable posture for dignity — certainly not in 
a schoolmaster. Though a good deal intimidated, 
the master frowned and stormed and threatened; but 
Tom was not to be frightened at words and looks. 
Indeed, the ludicrous situation of his instructor, the 
novelty of it, and his mock authoritative manner, put 
Tom into such a fit of laughter, that he could hardly 
utter his conditions of release. There was nothing 
but shouting and uproar through the school; and it 
was not till a promise of full pardon to all concerned, 
that the master was allowed to rise. 

Tom knew that this would end his school-boy days, 
and so far, he was not sorry for what had happened; 
for he longed to be free and abroad amid the adven- 
tures of the world. '^ Let it all go," said he, walking 
forward with a full swing; '' if I have been wild and 
head-strong, I have not altogether wasted my time. 
And I '11 so better my instruction, that I will one day 
be among men, what I have been among boys. And 
who will dare say, Nay, to Tom Thornton? " 



158 TOM THORNTON. 

As he came in sight of the house, he slackened his 
pace; and forgetting his views of power, began to 
consider how he should meet his father. 

''It will be all out in less than four and twenty 
hours, and I had better have the merit of telling it 
myself. This will go some way towards my pardon, 
for the old man, with all his severity, likes openness, 
— it has saved me many a whipping, when I was 
younger. So, thou almost only virtue I possess, let 
me make the most of thee while thou stickest by me." 

He was, indeed, a forthright lad, not because he 
considered openness a virtue, but because it agreed 
with the vehemence and daring of his character, and 
gratified his pride. 

With all his self-reliance, his heart beat quick as 
he drew near the door. He thought of his father's 
strict notions of government, his own numerous of- 
fences of late, the sternness and quickness of his 
father's temper, and the violence and obstinacy of his 
own; and he could not but dread the consequences of 
the meeting. 

«c Why should I stand like a coward, arguing the 
matter with myself, when I know well enough that 
there is but one way of acting? The sooner begun, 
the sooner over; the worst has an end." 

So saying, he threw open the door, and went 
directly to his father's room. Mr. Thornton was not 
there. He passed as hastily from one room to another, 
as if in pursuit of some one Vv'ho was trying to escape 
him, inquiring quickly for his father of every body he 
met. He at last went to his mother's chamber, and 
knocking, but scarcely waiting for an answer, entered, 
and asked abruptly, '' Where is he? " 

'' Who, my dear? " 



TOM THORNTON. 159 

*' Dear me no dears, I 'm not in a humour for it. 
Where's my father? " 

''Your father, child! He's gone to the village. 
But what 's the matter? Something dreadful, I'm 
sure. O, Thomas, you make my life miserable." 

'' Humph! " said Tom, drawing his lips close to- 
gether. ''Gone to the village! Then every old 
w^oman there has blabbed it over and over again in 
his ears, and with a thousand lies tagged to it, and as 
many malicious condolences about his hotheaded son. 
Nothing puts my father into such a fury as the whin- 
ing of these old crones. Ah, I see the jig 's up, and 
all my honesty comes to nothing. Well, it can't be 
helped; — it is coming." 

" What can 't be helped? Why don 't you speak to 
me, Thomas, and tell me what 's the matter? " 

"Ah! mother, is it you? — I was thinking about 

What's the matter, ask you? Matter enough, 

truly. There 's young Star sold for a lame cart-horse 
— a gallant fiery steed you were too, Star; — the gay 
furbished gig dashed into as many fragments as your 
chandelier, and gone with Pharaoh's chariot wheels, 
for aught I know. Mother, I've been in too great a 
hurry ever since, to ask your pardon for running foul 
your chandelier yesterday. But my father came in so 
close upon me, he liked to have cut his foot with the 
pieces. There 's another mark to my list of sins. 
Then there 's the breaking of Jack's head for not mind- 
ing me instead of my father, and a score more of worse 
things, and all within these six days." 

" O, Thomas, Thomas, what will become of us? " 

" Become of iisl Why, 'tis none of your doings, 

Mother. You never broke the gig, or lamed Star, 

or cudgeled Jack, that I know of But reserve your 

grief awhile, for the worst is behind." 



160 



TOM THORNTON. 



''Worst, Thomas! I shall lose my senses. Your 
father mutters about you in his very sleep; and he has 
threatened of late to send you out of the house, if you 
go on at such a rate." 

'' I know it. Yet I hardly think he would turn me 
adrift. What if he does? There is room enough; 
and come fair or foul, I've a ready hand and a stout 
heart." 

'' You will certainly kill your unhappy mother if 
you talk so. Your father says your conduct is all 
owing to my indulgence, and you have no gratitude 
or pity for me." 

'' In faith. Mother, I fear my father has the right 
on 't. Come, come, don't make yourself miserable 
about such an overgrown boy as I am, and I '11 tell the 
rest of my story. 

'' Mother, I 'm a rebel and an outlaw; and the worst 
of it is, my father's notions of government are as high 
as the Grand "Turk's. Yes, we had old pedagogue 
flat on his bdck; and he could no more turn over than 
a turtle. And such a sprawling as he made of it ! 
And when we let him up, could you but have seen how 
he trembled, every joint of him, — knees and elbows!" 

Here Tom fell a laughing, and his mother burst 
into tears. Though her weak fondness for her son 
took away from him nearly all respect for his mother, 
still Tom loved her, and often blamed himself severely 
that he had given her so much trouble, and so often 
brought upon her his father's displeasure. His heart 
was touched; and taking her hand, he asked forgive- 
ness for trifling with her feelings. ''Do not think 
that it is because I am careless of what concerns you. 
You see I play the fool with my own troubles, and I 
certainly am not indifferent about them." 



TOM THORNTON. 161 

** I know, I know! my son. But you will meet with 
nothing except evil in life, if you do not learn prudence 
and self-control. You have a good heart, I believe; 
yet you are giving constant pain and anxiety to your 
best friends, and must, so long as your passions are 
your masters, and you, violent and changing as the 
sea.'' 

Her son promised to set seriously about subduing 
his passions, and letting his reason have more sway. 

As Tom conjectured, Mr. Thornton had heard the 
whole story, and with the usual country-village colour- 
ing. It was too much for his irascible temper, goaded 
as it had been of late by his son's inconsiderate con- 
duct. He set off home in great wrath, hurrying over 
Tom's misdeeds so rapidly and confusedly, that a 
dozen multiplied and changed places with such swift- 
ness, they showed like a thousand. With his mind 
thus filled with blind rage, and his body fevered with 
the speed with which he walked, he entered the house, 
a very unfit subject for Tom to begin the exercise of 
his new resolutions upon. 

Tom had seen his father coming along the road, and 
had gone to his room, waiting his arrival, with a de- 
termination to relate the whole affair, confess his error 
in this and other instances, make known his resolution 
to change his conduct, and humbly ask forgiveness for 
the past, and all in a dutiful and composed manner. 

Mr. Thornton seized the latch, but with a hand so 
shaking with rage, that it did not rise at his touch. 
Heated and impatient as he was, the least thing was 
enough to make him furious; he thrust his foot against 
the door, — it started the catch, and sent it half across 
the room. The passing sense of shame at his uncon- 
trolled passion only increased his anger; and seeing 
11 



162 TOM THORNTON. 

his son standing in the middle of the room, — '' Block- 
head/' he cried, darting forward, till his face almost 
touching Tom's, his clinched fists pressed convul- 
sively against his thighs, — '^ blockhead, dare you 
fasten me out of my own room? '' 

The unexpected violence of Mr. Thornton's man- 
ner rather surprised than irritated Tom, and he looked 
at his father with a composed and slightly contemptu- 
ous cast of expression, without making any reply. 

Mr. Thornton was sensible how groundless his 
charge was, the instant he uttered it. He was for a 
moment discomposed, too, by his son's calm and 
haughty bearing; and probably would have been glad 
had Tom replied in the manner he sometimes did. 

'' Do you stand there to insult me. Sir? You may 
well hold your peace; for what could you say to your 
infamous and rebellious conduct? " 

''Do you mean fastening your door. Sir?" asked 
Tom. 

'' Door, door, puppy ! Look ye, their hinges shall 
rust off first, ere you shall open them again, unless 
you mend your life." 

'' Say but the word, Sir, and you need not be at the 
trouble of fastening." 

" You're a cold-blooded, thankless wretch," stormed 
out his father. '' You were born to be a curse, in- 
stead of a blessing to me, and you joy in it. You 
lead a life of violence and riot, and will live and die 
a disgrace to your family." 

'' I will do something to give it a name," said Tom, 
'' if I hang for it. I '11 not lead a milksop life of it, 
to be called respectable by old dames, young syco- 
phants, and money-lenders." 

"A name, indeed! You'll go marked like Cain, 



TOM THORNTON. 163 

and with your hand, too, against every man, and every 
man's hand against you, and hang you will, that's past 
doubt, unless you mend." 

''Better that, than without a name. And be a 
halter my destiny," said he, looking down upon his 
manly figure with some complacency; '* I shall be- 
come a cart as well as another man." 

'^ Fop !" snapped out his father, enraged at Tom's 
contemptuous, cool trifling. 

" I^m no fop. If I 'm a well made fellow, I thank 
God for it; and where 's the harm of that? " 

'^ Do you repeat my words, Sir, and trifle with 
your Maker, in my presence, and set all laws, divine 
and human, at defiance ? Is 't not enough to break and 
destroy what 's mine, and keep all at home in an up- 
roar, but you must go abroad to disgrace me, and 
make yourself the hate and dread of every body, by 
your violence and rebellion? But you shall be hum- 
bled, and that in the eyes of all the world. We '11 
have that proud spirit of yours down, before it rides 
over any more necks. Yes, my lad, it is all settled. 
The whole school, with you at their head, (for you 
shall be their leader in this, as you have been in ev- 
ery thing else,) shall to-morrow morning down on their 
knees before their master, and ask his pardon." 

'^ I ! on my knees to that shadow of a man ! No, in 
faith, I 'd stand as straight and stiff before him as a 
drill-sergeant, till my legs failed, ere I 'd nod my 
head to him. What ! he that would whip all faith 
and honour out of a boy, till he left a soul in him no 
bigger than his own ! I '11 bow to none but to Him 
that made me, so help " 

'' Hold, hold, said the father, (whose passions were 
now at their utmost,) have a care before you take an 



164 TOM THORNTON. 

oath on 't ; for, as I live, you 're no longer son of mine, 
unless you do it." 

^' Then I'm my own master, and the ground I 
stand on is my own; for, by my right hand, I '11 ask 
forgiveness of no man living," said Tom, turning res- 
olutely away from his father, as if all was ended. 

'' Mad boy!" called out his father, *' hear me now 
for the last time; for unless you this instant promise 
t o obey, I '11 never set eyes on you more ; — and leave 
this house you shall by to-morrow's light." 

^' 'Tis a bright night," said Tom, looking compos- 
edly out of the window, '' and the stars will serve as 
well. Nor will I eat or sleep where I am not wel- 
come," he added, taking up his hat and walking de- 
liberately out of the room. 

His determined manner at once satisfied Mr. Thorn- 
ton that Tom would act up to what he had said; and 
a father's feelings for the moment took possession of 
him, with compunction for the violence which had 
<lriven his son from him. He went toward the door 
to call Tom back, but he was already out of hearing. 
'' Wilful and headstrong boy," said the old man, turn- 
ing back and shutting the door, with a feeling of disap- 
pointment, ''time and suffering alone must cure you." 
Thus for the moment he eased his conscience, and 
was saved the sacrifice of his pride. 

Tom was passing through the entry with a hasty 
step, and had nearly reached the outer door, when the 
light caught his eye, as it shone from under the par- 
lour door. The sight recalled him to himself in an 
instant, and stirred every home feeling within him. 
He heard his mother's voice as she was reading aloud. 
The blood throbbed to his very throat. The thought 
that she should be so tranquil, and so unconscious of 



TOM THORNTON. 165 

the affliction that was ready to break upon her, cut 
him to the heart. If she had been a victim which he 
was about to sacrifice, he could not have felt more 
pain. He listened a moment. '' I must not go with- 
out seeing her, without taking her blessing with me, — 
else I shall go accurst ! " He laid his hand upon the 
latch and raised it a little: — his mother still read on. 
With all his violence and rudeness, Tom had a 
strong affection for his mother. His feelings, too, 
were now softened; for he was humbled and pained 
at reflecting upon the unjust violence of a father, who, 
though of a stern and hasty temper, he had heretofore 
respected. To a mind not wholly depraved, the faults 
of a parent are almost as mortifying and wounding as 
its own; and Tom would have given the world, if the 
wrong had now been in himself alone. — ''I dare not 
trust myself to see my mother now. She would make 
a very child of me ; my father would be sued too, and 
then what would become of all my resolutions and 
decision !'' '' Pshaw! " said he, dashing away a tear 
with one hand, as the other dropped from the latch; 
'^ is this the way for one like me to begin the world? '' 
He walked slowly out of the house, drew the door to 
gently after him, and passed down the yard, uncon- 
scious that he was moving forward, till he reached the 
gate. He opened it mechanically, then leaning over 
it, looked toward his home. '''Tis an ill parting 
with you, this," said he; ''yet I leave you not in 
anger. Many a blessing I have had, and many a 
happy time of it, and many more there might have 
been for me, had I not been a froward child. There 
are few such to come, I fear. He stood with his eyes 
fixed on the house, while his mind wandered over the 
past, and what aw^iited him. The light flashed out 



166 TOM THORISTON. 

cheerfully upon the trees near the window, and their 
leaves twinkled brightly in it. He cast his eyes round; 
but the earth looked gloomy in the darkness, for no 
lights were to be seen but those of the distant stars. 
''I said that ye would serve me," said he, looking 
upward, '^ and if I spoke in anger. Heaven forgive 
me for it. I must be on my way, and must go like a 
man." 

In the midst of the most violent passions, it is curi- 
ous to see how quickly and with what care the mind 
will sometimes lay its plans for future resources. 
Tom Thornton, when much younger than at this 
time, had been made a pet, that he might be used as 
an instrument, by a lad a little older than himself, of 
the name of Isaac Beckford. Isaac plotted most of 
the mischief done at school, and applauded Tom for 
his sagacity and intrepidity in the execution of it, 
taking care not to demand any praise for his own in- 
genious contrivances. In this way they became 
necessary to each other; and after Isaac left school to 
reside in the city with an uncle, of the same name, 
whose ward he was, he wrote frequently to Tom, 
urging him to come to town, and share in the amuse- 
ments in which a large fortune would soon enable 
Isaac to indulge. Tom now resolved to make his 
way to the city and have the benefit of his friend's 
influence to put himself in a situation to rise in the 
world. 

Having made up his mind, though it was somewhat 
of a journey on foot to the city, and he wholly igno- 
rant of the way, (the village in which he resided lying 
far off* from any great road,) Tom marched forward 
as confidently as if the church spires of the town had 
been in sight. The character of adventure, freedom 



TOM THORNTON. 167 

and novelty in his condition, the sharp, clear night 
air, and the crowd and glitter of the stars in the sky, 
gave an expanse and a vivid action to his mind, and 
roused up the hopeful spirit which for a time had slept 
within him. '* Come, come,'' said he to himself, 
*^ you 're a tall boy, Tom, better fitted to shoulder 
your way through the world, than delve Greek under 
a starveling pedant." 

So intent was he upon his schemes, that he took 
little heed to the by-road he was travelling, and had 
walked till about midnight without being conscious of 
time or fatigue. The perfect stillness about him at 
last drew his attention, and looking round, he found 
himself on the top of a small hill, in the midst of a 
country barren, broken into knolls, and covered, as 
far as the eye could reach, with large, loose stones. 
An old tree, at a distance, was all that showed life had 
ever been here; and that, with its sharp, scraggy, 
an4 barkless, gray branches shooting out uncouthly 
towards the sky, looked like a thing accursed. — ''A 
hard and lonely life you must have had of it here," 
said Tom, ''and been sadly off for music, if you 
were at all particular about it; for I doubt whether 
any sound has been heard for a long time in your 
branches, but that of the ravens and the heavy winds. 
It is as deadly still all around here, as the sky ; I wish 
I could say it looked as well. — What a pity that gib- 
bets are out of fashion, for this would be a choice 
place for them; and could I but hear the creaking of 
one, I should not have my ears so palsied with this 
dreadful, intense silence. — There winds a yellow 
cart-track from hill to hill, as far as I can see. It is 
to the left, and omens ill. I '11 take this, to the right — 
whether to the world's end or not, time will tell." 



168 TOM THORNTON. 

And forward he went. He at last grew weary; 
and as his pace slackened, he began to think of his 
home, his father and mother, and his many offences. 
His conscience was touched, and he felt as if unde- 
serving the light of the quiet heavens that shone on 
him. — ''Can one prosper, as he goes, when his 
father's anger and mother's grief follow him.'^" — 
His heart began to fail, and a thought passed him 
of finding his way back again. — ''What, and have 
my father taunt me, and call me a lad of metal .^ 
And how like a whipped dog I should look, crawl- 
ing up the yard ! And then that forked master, and 
his pardon! " cried Tom, clinching his fists till the 
nails nearly brought blood, and muttering a curse 
between his teeth, as the tears started to his eyes, 
part in grief, and part in unsated rage. — "Would 
that I had you in my grapple once more, you soulless 
wretch, and you should never make mischief between 
men again, — you mere thing! — What, return to all 
that! No, in faith, I 'd sooner be thrown out here like 
a dead beast, and lie till the bones in this body were 
as bare and white as these stones, ere I 'd go back 
so." 

He travelled on, with a loose, irregular step. Sus- 
taining and hopeful feelings had left him, and melan- 
choly and self-accusing thoughts were passing in his 
soul; yet his mind was made up, and supported by a 
kind of dogged obstinacy. — " There will be no end 
to this track, as I see. It winds round and over these 
hundred hills, as if it were delighted at getting into 
so pleasant a country." He continued his route. — 
" Must my voice lose itself for ever in the solitude of 
this stillness ? Is there a doom of eternal silence on 
all things, where I go? Will nothing speak tome?" 



TOM THORNTON. 169 

He presently heard a low, rumbling sound, as if in 
the earth under his feet. He started, but recovering 
himself, walked on. It increased to a surly growl, 
and seemed to spread underneath the hills and through 
the hollows; and the earth jarred. — '^Does nature 
make experiments with her earthquakes in this out- 
of-the-way place, before she overturns cities with 
them? " said he, with a bitter scoff, feeling how little 
he cared at the moment for what might happen to 
him. As he came round a hill, the sound opened dis- 
tinctly upon him, sending up its roar into the air; and 
raising his eyes, he saw at a distance a tall, giant pile, 
looking black against the sky. — *'So, my earthquake 
turns out to be nothing but a waterfall. And why 
cannot I be fooled again, and be made to believe that 
clumsy factory, to be the huge castle of some big, hairy 
manslayer and violator of damsels? What ! shall I be 
down-hearted now in my need! — I who have carried 
a confident brow and a firm breast against whatever 
opposed me ! It must be that I need food, else how 
could I be so melancholy? I '11 have that and sleep 
too before long, and a fresh body and bright morn- 
ing to start with to-morrow." 

So saying, he took his way toward the building. 
The path led him to the stream, just above the fall. 
It lay still and glassy to the very edge of the preci- 
pice, down which it flung itself, roaring and foaming. 
The trees and bushes hung lightly over it, and the 
stars looked as thick in its depths, as in the sky above 
him. He was about resting himself upon a stone; 
but turning, he saw it was a grave-stone. — '* It is a 
holy thing," said he, ''and I will rest myself else- 
where." — He looked round, — there was not another 
grave in sight. — ''What, all alone? No compa^n- 



170 TOM THORNTON. 

ions in death? Though we hold not communion with 
each other in the grave, yet there is something awful 
in the thought of being laid in the ground away from 
the dwellings of all the living, and not even the deac^ 
by our side. But thou hast chosen thy habitation 
well, for this stream shall sing a holier and longer 
dirge by thee, than ever went up from man; yet this 
shall one day be still, and its waters dried up; but 
the spirit that was in thee shall live with God." 

He passed along the race-way. The water had 
left it ; and the grass was growing here and there in little 
clumps in its gravelly bottom. Its planks and timbers, 
forced up, forked out like a wreck, and the huge 
wheel, which had parted from its axle, lay broken 
and aslant the chasm. He looked toward the build- 
ing. The moon, which was just rising behind it, and 
shining through its windows, made it appear like some 
monster with a thousand eyes. Its door-path had 
grown up, and nothing was heard but the wind pass- 
ing through its empty length, and here and there the 
flapping of a window. He went round it, and saw 
at a little distance, four or five long, low buildings 
standing without order, upon little hillocks, without 
fence or tree, or any thing near them but short with- 
ered grass. — '' One would have thought," said Tom, 
'^that nature had done enough without art's coming 
in to help the desolation. Not a light hereabouts ! 
This seems not much like either bed or supper." Go- 
ing forward, he looked in at one house, then at another, 
but nothing was to be seen except bare plastered walls. 
At last, from one of the houses he spied a light gleam- 
ing through a crevice. The sight warmed his heart. 
He went to the door, and knocked. 

'* Who's there? " asked one, in a female voice. 

^' A friend." 



TOM THORNTON. 171 

''More foes than friends abroad at this hour, 
belike/' replied the person within. 

'' I 've lost my way," said Tom. '' No harm shall 
come to you, good woman, by letting in a traveller." 
''You promise well and in an honest voice," said 
she, as she opened the door. The light shone upon 
her, and Tom saw before him a tall, masculine wo- 
man, with strong features, but with a serious and sub- 
dued cast of countenance. 

" Who are you, young man? Out on no good in- 
tent, I fear, at this time o'night." 

"I'm Thornton of Thorntonville," said Tom, with 
his usual readiness, "an you've ever heard of the 
place. I was going to the city a- foot for once, and 
have missed my way." 

" Thornton of Thorntonville?" said the old woman, 
seeming to recollect herself; "I have seen your 
father, then, down at the big house yonder. Come 
in." 

" Your fire is comforting," said Tom, sitting down 
by it; "and it is the first comfortable thing I have 
met with for many long hours past. But you have 
made an odd choice of situations, my good woman." 

"The poor have not often their choice," said she. 
" And there are things sometimes which make the 
bare heath dearer to us than garden or park." 

" They are sad things then," said Tom. 

"Sad indeed," said the old woman, looking into 
the fire. She sat silent a little time; then breathino^ 
forth a low sigh that seemed to relieve the bosom of 
its aching, she said to Tom, " You must be over 
weary, and hungry too^ if you are from Thorntonville 
to-day, for it is a long walk; and you must have come 
over the heath; and one may stand there as at sea, — 



172 TOM THORNTON. 

hill after hill, like so many waves, and not a living 
thing on one of them all, till they run into the very 
sky. Wide as it is, it would hardly find summer feed 
for my old Jenny, were it not for the circle of grass 
that trims round a gray stone here and there." 

'^ There is not much to be said for its appearance," 
replied Tom. ''I am not a little tired, too; and 
though I cannot well tell how far I have walked, 
there was hardly a streaked cloud in the west when I 
left home." 

'^ It must have been a quick foot and a light heart 
that brought you so long a way in so short a time,' ' 
said she, as she was getting ready a bowl of bread 
and milk. '' The young hurry on, as if life would 
ne'er run out; yet many fall by the way; and I have 
lived to lay those in the ground, whom I looked to 
have had one day put the sod over this gray head." 

Tom's thoughts had gone home, but the old wo- 
man's last words were sounding in his ears. ''And 
who will do that last ofiice for me, or for them?'' 
thought he. She saw the gloom over Tom's face; 
and believing she had caused it — ''Nevermind," 
she said, "the complainings of one whose troubles 
are nigh over. Here!" giving Tom the bowl. — 
" You have but one dish to supper, yet that good of 
its kind; for 'tis short feed that makes the richest 
milk." 

"Whose is that huge building to the left, that 
creaks like a tavern sign? " asked Tom. 

" It was his who would have made money out of 
moonshine. But he has gone before his works." 

' ' He was not buried yonder, to be mocked by them, 
I trust." 

" O, no," answered the old woman. "She that I 



TOM THORNTON. 173 

laid there, had no schemes of grandeur; for Sally 
Wentworth was of a meek and simple heart." 

'^ Forgive me, my good woman, I should not have 
spoken of this, had I known how near to your heart 
it was to you.'' 

'* You have no forgiveness to ask of me. I am a 
lone woman, and there seldom passes here one who 
cares to be troubled with my griefs; and it is moisture 
to this dried heart to talk to one who can feel for my 
afflictions; for Sally was not only my child, but God 
has seldom blessed a mother with such a child. When 
he took from me my husband, I hope I did not forget 
his goodness in what he left to me; yet he saw fit to 
call her too, and his will be done. If grief had not 
killed her, I could bear my lot better. But how 
could it be other than it was, seeing that he whom she 
loved was so cruelly taken from her?" 

" She died of love, then ? " said Tom. *' It is a death 
seldom met with, and bespeaks a rare mind." 

*'I know it," replied the mother. **True love is a 
peculiar and a holy thing; yet those are said to love, 
who can lay one in the ground, and look fondly on 
another. O, I have seen it, and it has made me 
shudder when I have thought of those in the grave. 
Yes, and many too would scoff at them that were true 
to the dead; yet they would not, were it given them 
to know that the grief of such had that in it which was 
dearer and better than all their ioy. My Sally knew 
it, and it has made her a spirit in heaven. I sit and 
think over all that happened, but there is not a soul 
on earth to whom I can tell il." 

*' If you could think me worthy of it, I would ask 
you to tell me her story." 

'^'Tis a sad one, but will not hold you long, for 
Sally's life was a short and simple one. 



174 TOM THORNTON. 

*'She was to have been married to an industrious 
and kind-hearted lad. They knew each other when 
quite children; and grew more and more into a 
love for each other as they grew in years. And 
if their attachment did not show the breaks and 
passions of those which happen later, it was, I 
think, deeper seated in its quiet, and seemed to 
be a part of the existence of both of them. Could 
you have seen them, as I have, sitting on that very 
form, where you now sit, so gentle and happy in 
each other, you would not wonder that it wrings 
my heart, now they are both gone. But there was 
a snake crawling and shining in the grass. His 
eye fell before the pure eye of Sally, yet he could not 
give over. I dare not speak his name, lest I should 
curse him; and Sally forgave him, and prayed for his 
soul on her death-bed. The Evil one was busy in his: 
heart, and thwarted and enraged, and with his passions 
wrought up, he attempted that by force, which he did 
not dare speak out to her. Though she was of a gen- 
tle make, there was no want of spirit in her, and the 
wretch liked to have fallen by her hand. ' Thank 
God,' she has said to me, 'that I did not take his 
life.' 

*' She came home, shaking and pale with what had 
happened, and frightened at the danger she had 
escaped. Frank met her at the door, and asked her 
eagerly what was the matter; she hinted, hastily, 
enough for him to guess the rest. He sprang from 
the door, with an oath — the first I ever heard him 
utter. — She called loudly after him, but he was out 
of sight in an instant. She looked the way he had 
gone, almost breathless. ' I spared him,' said she, 
at last, ' but he may not — he may not.' It was but 



TOM THORNTON. 175 

a little while before Frank came home. He stag- 
gered into the house, and fell back into a chair. 

* What have you done? Speak, tell me what you 
have done/ cried Sally. * You have not, you have 
not murdered ^ — Frank grasped his throat, to stop its 
beating. ' 'No, No,' said he, scarcely to be heard, 

* I struck him but once, and he lay like a dead man 
before me; and I thought it was all over with him, 
but he presently opened his eyes upon me, and I 
dared not stay, for I felt the spirit of a murderer at 
my heart ! ' — He looked at the moment,'' said the old 
woman, ^' as if dropping the very knife from his hand. 

'^ And here," said she, *^ the storm began to gather 
fast and hard. The coward villain found means to 
raise suspicions against Frank, which threw him out 
of his employments. Yet so secret was he, as not to 
be suspected of the deed. The poor fellow wander- 
ed over these bare hills day after day, without know- 
ing what to turn his hands to. In the midst of all 
this trouble the wretch came to him, and begged for- 
giveness for his conduct to Sally. * I can forgive you/ 
said Frank, ' but I do not like looking upon you.' 

* That is not forgiveness,' said he, in a beseeching 
tone. * I was a villain, for I would have done you 
an injury past remedy. And it was more than I de- 
served, that you should have spared my life when I 
was down. I have not had a quiet rest since that 
time, and never shall, if you do not suffer me to do 
something to make amends.' * The best amends,' 
said Frank, ^ will be a better life in you.' ' I know it,' 
he answered, ^ and I hope it will be so, if remorse can 
give it. But you, too, must give me ease. Though 
young, my allowance is large. Some evil mind has 
worked you mischief, I am told, and you are poor. I 



176 TOM THORNTON. * 

do not ask you to take my money as your own — I 
have ne right to. But do at least show me that you 
have so far forgiven me, as to suffer me to lend it to 
you, and see you well established in your trade. It 
is the only atonement left me; and you will not cut 
me off from that?' Frank refused, and the villain 
begged like a slave. Frank began to think it was 
sinful pride, and he thought of Sally, and then he con- 
sented. The money was lent, and as soon as Frank 
had laid it out in stock for trade, the note was put in 
suit, and he was stripped of all he had, and thrown into 
gaol. Frank found a friend who released him; and 
he went to sea. And think," said she, turning to 
Tom, " he that contrived it all, was scarcely older than 
you are now; and yet he wears a gay heart and fair 
outside. 

*' i need not tell of the parting. It was a bitter 
one, and no meeting after it. ' There was a storm at 
sea, and the ship went down. And many a night 
have I lain and seen the body heaved up wave after 
wave, as ihey took it, one after another, till they bore 
it away, far, far out of sight. The news came at last; 
yet she shed no tear, nor spoke a word; but her si- 
lence was awful — it was like a spirit near me. For 
many days she sat in that corner with her hands clasp- 
ed and resting on her knees, looking with a glazed 
eye upon the fire ; and I could see her pining away 
before me as she sat there. At last she would leave 
the house at night-fall, when it was chilly autumn, 
and when the crisped, frozen grass would crumble 
under her feet. And I have found her standing on 
the top of a hill near, many and many a night, with 
her eyes fixed on the moon, her lips moving and giving 
a low sound, of what, I could not tell. Nor would she 



TOM THORNTON. 177 

look at me, nor mind that I was by. And I have led her 
home, and laid her shivering in her bed, and she 
would take no heed of me. At last the cold winds and 
the snow struck her. But as she lay there on the 
bed, her mind opened: — it did not wander any more. 
She said that but one being had done her wrong, and 
though it was an awful wrong, she was sure that she 
forgave him, and would pray that he might be forgiven. 

'* Just before she died, she stretched out her hand 
to me, — she saw me look at it. ' It was a fresh hand 
once, but is dead and shrunken now; and there are 
the blue veins,' said she, tracing them with one of her 
fingers, ' where the blood used to flow warm and quick ; 
but they are dried up, though they stand out so. I 
am going to peace, mother, and to him that loved me.' 
The tears fell on her pillow, as she said, * But who 
will take care of you now in your old age ? ' Then 
looking upward, with a bright smile over her face, 
and without turning toward me, — ' God, my mother, 
God will take care of you.' I felt it like a revelation 
from heaven. 

^* She died, and I laid her where she wished to be 
laid, in that grave you saw by the stream, — for you 
spoke of one, did you not.? I bring water from that 
stream morning and night; and when the weather is 
calm, I stop and pray at her grave, and in the driving 
storm I utter my prayer in the spirit, as I pass by; — 
and with God it is the same, if it comes from a sincere 
heart. — My story is done." ''It is late, and you 
have walked far, and there is a clean bed for you, 
though a hard one, in the next room." Tom wished 
her good night; but she did not answer him: he 
saw that she could not. '' O, Isaac Beckford," mur- 
mured she, as Tom shut the door, ''there is a heavy 
12 



1,78 TOM THORNTON^. 

silicon your soul; may there be mercy in heaven for 
you." Tom did not hear the name, nor suspect his 
friend. 

Though he rose early, he found breakfast ready. 
The hostess looked cheerful, for every affliction has 
its comfort to the Christian. — ''And now," said he, 
shoving back his chair from the table, '' how am I to 
find my way to the city? " 

''-Look,'"' said the old woman, going to the door, 
" yonder you see the wood which borders this heath; 
and there are the chimnies of Beckford mansion, and 
the great road winds near it. You will see no smoke 
there, though a clear morning. — It is an empty house 
now. The heath brought you a short route, for it is 
only a dozen miles or so to town. Nigh enough, I 
fear, to such a place, for one who has passions like 
yours." 

"What know you of my passions, good woman.'' 
What have you heard of me? " 

" Naught in the w^orld. But do I not see them in 
the moving of your lip, and the gleam of that eye? 
Rein them with a steady hand, or they may prove of 
too h^t metal for you." Tom thanked her, and then 
offered her money. "You came as a cast-away," 
said she, "and I cannot take it." He tendered it 
again. "No, no, I can never take fare-money of 
one who has listened to my story." Tom urged her 
no further, but wishing her, kindly, good morning, set 
out on his way. As he drew near the city, the roads 
became crowded, and his spirits rose. "What a 
mighty stir is here — and what a medley! Things of 
all sorts, from horse-cart and check frock, to coach 
and laces! And who is merriest of the crowd, it 
would be hard to tell. At last came the hubbub and 



TQM THORNTON. 179 

rattle of the town. '' One needs a speaking trumpet, 
to be heard here," thought Tom. 

By dint of inquiry, a quick eye and ready mind, he 
at last found the street, and the number of the house 
of Beckford's guardian. The servant made Tom's 
arrival known to Isaac. ' ' What, my young protege ! " 
exclaimed Isaac to himself — ''And in ffood time: 
for soon I shall be a free man, and he must minister 
to my pleasure, as must every one whom I favour. 
I must see that he is brought up in the way he should 
go." 

With a deliberate step and plotting mind, he walked 
down stairs; but rushing swiftly into the room, and 
running to Tom, seized him round the shoulders, with 
a hearty, God bless you, and how are you, my old 
buck. This welcome was a cordial to Tom's heart; 
for, with all his high spirits, the manner of his leav- 
ing home, and what he had passed through since, had 
depressed him and made him thoughtful; and he was 
ill at ease with himself After many questions about 
old playmates, and jokes upon past school tricks, 
Tom told Isaac that he wished to see him where 
they should not be interrupted. 

'' To be sure you shall," said Isaac, stepping into 
a side room, and locking the door after them. '' But 
what is all this for? You have no game afoot here 
already, surely? Or has some hare scaped you? If 
so, 't is I must start her again. I 've the scent of a 
hound, Tom." 

''A good quality. Not wanted now, however. 
I will tell you what it is." And he told the whole 
story. 

*' A pretty child you, to quarrel with your bread 



180 TOM THORNTON. 

and butter. A lad of metal truly. But does one 
show his spirit, for the sake of getting a broken 
head ? You must put yourself under my care. I see 
no reason why we should not live pleasantly enough 
without the old folks, till your father repents; which 
I warrant you will be shortly. In the mean time^" 
said Isaac, scanning Tom as he spoke/' '' there must 
be a change from top to toe." 

'' I have no money," said Tom. 

'^ I have, though," said Isaac; *' so give yourself 
no concern." Tom coloured. He had not thought 
of this before. Isaac burst into a loud laugh. 

'' Give me leave," said he, as soon as he could 
speak. '^ Why, you look as you did when caught by 
your master stealing his rod. There is no other way 
for you — if you wo'nt suffer me a trifling favour, 
you must bilk the tailor." 

'' I tell you v/hat," said Tom; " I would be under 
such obligations to no man living but you. And I 
like not that even. Money favours are but poor bonds 
of friendship." 

"Pshaw," said Isaac, ** your father will pay all; 
and should he be stiff about it, if I credit him, and 
lose, what 's that to you? So, now for a merry year or 
two to come." 

" Not so fast," said Tom ; *' I want your assistance, 
but in another way. You have influential friends. 
I did not come here for sport. I am for sea, and sea 
fights." Isaac gave him a questioning look. *''Tis 
even so, I 'm set upon it, Isaac." 

'* Well then, so be it. But first, come, see my 
guardian." 

Isaac was right in his conjecture about Mr. Thorn- 
ton. His wife's anxiety concerning the fate of her 



TOM THORNTON. 181 

son, and the reflection that he had been hasty and 
unjust towards him, led the old gentleman to write to 
Isaac's uncle; for he had little doubt whither Tom 
had gone. Mr. Beckford stated, in his answer, Tom's 
desire to go into the navy; and it was concluded that 
Tom should have a moderate supply of money, and 
be furthered in his intent, without knowing any thing 
of his father's share in the business. Isaac therefore 
appeared as principal, and he took care to increase 
his influence by it; but he could not turn Tom from 
his purpose, and he did not like to thwart his rich 
uncle. 

Thornton's mind was so full of ships and the seas, 
of fights and promotion, that Isaac saw it was impos- 
sible to sink him in dissipation at once. '^ Whatever 
is that lad's object," said Beckford, '' is a passion with 
him for the time. I must give him line." 

'^ Are you going to run me through, Tom? " 

'' I was only boarding the enemy." 

'^ That coat is of the true cut, Tom." 

'' It sits no more to the shape of a man, than to a 
partridge. When I am admiral, Isaac, — -as I shall 
be" 

*' God save you, admiral ! " 

'^'lldo." 

''What will you do?" 

'' Pay you the tailor's bill, for having made me such 
a thing to show clothes on. Let 's to the ship. — She 
sits on the water," said Tom, as they were carried 
towards her, '' as if she were born of the sea. And 
then again so tall, and light, and graceful, she seems 
a creature of the air." — 

A few days before sailing, he received a guarded 
letter from his mother. He threw it angrily upon tho 



182 TOM THORNTON. 

table. *' No, no! This was written under the hard 
eye of my father." And he wrote an answer full of 
affection and high hopes. 

As Tom had always resolved to command a ship of 
war, he had made good use of his time at school to learn 
all but what practice gives. With a quick insight 
into whatever he turned his attention to, his many and 
appropriate inquiries and close and wide observation 
soon made him familiar with all that could be acquired 
in port, and to be ready for much that the sea would 
teach him. 

There was a stiff breeze and a clear blue sky, and 
the air was radiant with the sun, when he bade fare- 
well to Isaac. Tom's brave, fiery, open temper, made 
young Beckford's sly, cautious, and vicious disposi- 
tion seem despicable and weak even to himself, and 
he was fixed upon revenge. He was one of that race 
who carry a hell within them — who, belonging to the 
rank of ordinary beings, and wanting the bold and 
sustaining spirit of open hostility, bear secret hate to 
all above them. 

'^ This is life," said Tom, as he stood looking out 
on the ocean. ^' The unseen winds make music over 
head; the very ship rejoices in the element in which 
she moves; and the sea on which we are opening, 
looking limitless as eternity, heaves as if there were 
life in it.'^ 

Tom had high notions of a ship's discipline, and 
submitted with a good grace. ''And so will I 
be obeyed,'' thought he, '' when my turn comes." 
Though among his fellow-officers his manner was too 
impetuous, yet there was something so hearty and 
frank in it, that they could not take offence. He 
exacted perfect obedience where he commandedj but 



TOM THORNTON. 183 

was free from cruelty. He was continually learning 
of experienced officers; nor did he suffer the slightest 
thing which could be of use, to escape his observa- 
tion. He visited foreign ports; and with a curiosity 
all alive and perpetually gratified, this earth was like 
a new world to him. 

At last came the news of a war, and Tom rubbed 
his hands like an epicure over a smoking dinner. ''A 
bloody battle, and I shall mount, — or fall, and another 
walk over me: all the same to the world.'' At last 
was given the cry of ^ A sail;' and Tom saw a ship 
ahead rising up, as it were, slowly and steadily out of 
the sea, as she neared. As she tacked to the wind, 
he gazed upon her almost with rapture. — " Queen of 
the sea, cried he, '' how silently and beautifully and 
stately she bears herself ! " 

''A heavy ship," said an older officer. 

'■' She's a superb bird of passage," answered Tom, 
*' fit messenger for the gods. 'T is a pity; but we 
must bring her down." — A distant fire was opened. 
He looked disappointed and impatient that so little 
was done. 

" You will be gratified to your heart's content pres- 
ently, young man. We shall have no boys' play to- 
day." 

'' Nor do I want it. Let it come hot and heavy." 
And his eye brightened and spirits rose, the harder 
and closer the fight. 

In the midst of this, the enemy's mainmast swayed 
once or twice, then came a crash and a cry, and it 
went by the board. Tom shuddered, and shut his 
eyes convulsively, as he saw the poor fellows go with 
it. All was in a moment forgotten, when the ship he 
was in, falling on the other's bow, the cry, * to board,' 



184 TOM THORNTON. 

was heard. He jumped upon the enemy's deck with 
the spring of a tiger. They gave way. He was 
foremost through the fight, with a wet brow and 
clotted hand. In a few minutes the deck was cleared 
of all but the dead and dying. All was bustle and 
joy on one side; and Tom's heart swelled, when the 
captain in his warmth shook him heartily by the hand. 
But no one envied him, so meekly did he bear it. He 
stepped back a little. A dying man gave his last groan 
at his feet. Tom started, and looking down, saw the 
sightless, open eyes of the dead man turned up toward 
him. It shrunk his very heart up. ''And has this 
been my sport?" said he. '' God forgive me.'' Tom 
went home, as one of the officers of the prize, with a 
high commendation of his conduct. 

'' I am worn with this incessant heave of the sea," 
said he, as he hung over the ship's side, '' and long 
to be ashore, and smell the earth again, and mix in 
the occupations of men. The moon shines as fair 
here, and looks as happy, showing her dimpled face 
in the water, as if she had all the world to worship 
her. The sky and earth hold blessed and silent com- 
munion, which we, who crawl about here, think not 
of Would I could share in it, and mingle with the 
air, and be all a sensation too deep for sound — a 
traveller among the stars, and filled with light. I am 
a thing of clay — a creature of sin," he murmured, 
as he turned, and went to the cabin. 

The rim of the sea was of gold, when the sun was 
wheeled slowly up, and burnished the whole ocean. 
The light flashed up into the cabin windows. Thorn- 
ton's soul enlarged itself as he looked out upon this 
life of the world. Going upon deck, he found an 
officer there. 

'^ What, up before me ?" 



TOM THORNTON. 185 

" Yes, I have been watching the harbour light, till 
it went out like the morning star." Tom turned, 
and the gay islands that lay softly upon the sea, 
looked to him like messengers sent to welcome him to 
land; and as he made the shore, even the dark rocks 
seemed sociable, as if they had come down to meet 
him. He landed with an exulting spirit amidst the 
cheers of the populace, and hearty congratulations of 
the few acquaintances he had formerly left behind, 
Isaac was not among them; and upon inquiry, Thorn- 
ton learned that he was out of town at old Mr. Beck- 
ford's, late his guardian. As soon as Tom could leave 
the city, he drove out thither. 

As he dashed along with a speed that made the 
fields and trees appear hurrying by him, he thought 
of the time when he trudged the same road a-foot, and 
an outcast, and not noticed of a passer-by. *'I 
always felt that I should rise, and make men look up 
at me; and I will be higher yet ere long. Neither 
will it be a gallows elevation, as my father prophesied 
in' his anger. What a triumph I have gained over 
them ! They shall not fail to hear of it in full, and 
that shortly. What a selfish wretch am I ! Whose 
hearts, in all the world, will be prouder and gladder 
than their's at my success?" — He whirled up the 
circular way to the house, and sprang to the ground 
as light as if buoyed by the air. There was one who 
saw him from behind the window curtain. '' What a 
gallant fellow!" she cried. '' He descended to the 
earth like one of the gods. What a form! W^ho can 
it be? It must be young Thornton. Yes, the whole 
face tallies with what I've heard of his daring and 
impetuous character. Heigh-ho, I wonder what 's 
become of Mr. Henley. I hope he has not broken his 



186 TOM THORNTON. 

poor neck, and rid himselfof his million of complaints 
at once." 

Tom followed the servant, and came so suddenly 
upon Isaac, that he was not prepared to make his usual 
demonstrations of joy. Tom felt it for an instant. But 
Isaac, seeing his error, began repairing it, by asking 
question after question, hardly giving Tom time to 
answer one of them, and expressing all the while the 
warmest joy at his success. 

" Well, Tom, half a dozen years have done much 
for you." 

'' Yes, and I mean that six to come shall do 
more." 

*' Well resolved, as usual, and surely, I have no 
doubt; for you have fire and skill to melt and cast to 
your liking. Come along, and take a look at my fair 
cousin — cousin I call her, though a third remove. 
But, have a care, my boy, for her worn out rake of a 
husband knows what a woman is, and has a lynx's 
eye." 

There is nothing better calculated to put a man in 
a woman's power, than bidding him be on his guard 
against her; for he at once imagines that he may be 
an object of interest to her, and that there is some- 
thing in her worth being a slave to. 

When Thornton entered the room, the sun was 
down, but the deep clouds were on fire with his light 
and threw their warm glow upon a rich crimson sofa, 
on which rested, clad in white drapery, the beautiful 
Mrs. Henley. She was leaning on her elbow which 
sunk into a cushion, raising her a little, and giving a 
luxurious curvature to the body, and showing the 
limbs in all their fine proportions and fulness. Her 
wristj a little bent, shone with a dazzling whiteness. 



TOM THORNTON. 187 

while her fingers were half hid among the leaves of 
a costly book. Her fairy foot, in a white satin 
slipper, was playing in the deep flounce of the sofa, 
and as she rose with a pretended embarrassment, the 
exquisitely turned ancle glanced for an instant on 
Thornton's sight. Something shot through his breast 
with the acuteness of an electric shock; and it was 
with difficulty that he could give utterance to the 
passing compliments. His confusion was not unob- 
served by Isaac or the lady; and they were both de- 
termined to turn it to their several purposes; but from 
very different motives. 

Mrs. Henley lived in Isaac's neighbourhood long 
before her marriage; and her fine person and beauti- 
ful face, and the slow, wavy outline which deep pas- 
sion gave to her movements, had excited in him, to 
an intense degree, all that he was capable of feeling 
for a woman. The loose and evil passions were strong 
in him; and as he was without true courage, he grati- 
fied them by ingenuity and trick. When such per- 
sons are understood, the men despise, and the women 
loathe them. All his endeavours to ingratiate him- 
self with his cousin, only made him the more dis- 
gusting to her; for when he was most intent upou 
pleasing her, his manner was a mixture of fawning 
and condescension, which moved her contempt and 
touched her pride. Sometimes she revenged herself 
by cold disdain, at others, by turning him to ridicule 
with her playful and ready wit. But Isaac could 
submit to be trodden on, so he could gain his object, 
or compass his revenge; and he swore Fanny should 
be Mrs. Beckford, or rue the day she married anoth- 
er. He had failed in his first purpose, and was now 
wholly bent on vengeance. He saw the effect that 



l»a TOM THORNTON. 

Tom had produced on her, and that he was not un- 
touched. Isaac's plan was formed; and though he 
had determined to make Tom a mere instrument for 
his own end, he hated him for that very preference 
which had been shown to him, though it made him 
more easily his tool. 

Fanny, with all her hate of Isaac, would have been 
Mrs. Beckford, had no better establishment offered. 
She was selfish, of strong passions, regardless of 
principles, of unbounded extravagance and ambition, 
with a mind somewhat tasteful, yet fond of the showy, 
of high spirit, and of quick intellect (which is every 
thing in fashionable society,) and with art to appear 
whatever she chose to be at the time. She was bal- 
ancing in secret the pros and cons of a marriage with 
Isaac, when Mr. Henley, who had wasted one for- 
tune early in life, now suddenly presented himself 
with a broken constitution and fretfu. disposition, but 
with a large estate, to which he had just succeeded; 
and she in due time became Mrs. Henley. She soon 
devoted herself to spending his fortune, and leaving 
him to his doctor and nurse. 

«f Why, Tom," said Isaac, in a laughing way, but 
with a malignant purpose, '' you were as careless and 
easy in company of the ladies before you went to sea, 
as you were at your whist club; but you look as awk- 
ward now as some Jonathan, who is working himself 
up to a tender of himself and kine to a country 
maiden. Does the salt water always have such an 
effect?" 

" If it does," said Fanny, '' there are more virtues 
in a sea voyage than I have before heard of; and it 
might be a benefit to some whom I had long put 
down on the list of incurables. 



TOM THORNTON. 189 

*' Why, coz, one so pretty as you should only shoot 
cupid's arrows, and not wound us with those of wit." 

'' 'Tis pity it should have mischiefed you; I but 
shot it o'er the house." 

'' And wounded your brother." 

'' Something too much akin, that, Isaac." 

'^ Then you are not for the platonics? " 

''Not with a handsome youth like you." — Isaac 
bit his lip; and Tom laughed. 

«f Why, Isaac, did I ever before see you so foiled ? 
Your have grown dull since I left you. Have your 
wits sharpened — have them sharpened, Isaac." 

'' So do, Isaac, and on your heart," she whispered; 
*' it will serve." 

'' I will," he muttered to himself, '' and to your cost, 
you shall find, ye silly ones." 

At that moment Mr. Henley entered, leaning on 
the arm of old Mr. Beckford, who, now far advanced 
in life, was of a cheerful, fresh and benevolent aspect, 
Mr. Beckford shook Thornton heartily by the hand, 
and welcomed him well ashore. The other was a tall, 
stooping, gaunt figure, with a sallow and thin face, 
dark, hanging eyebrows and a glancing, cautious eye. 
With all this, he showed the remains of a handsome 
person, and was what is commonly called a polished 
gentleman. He received Tom with a courtly distance. 

'' My dear," said his wife, affecting concern, '' you 
don't know how uneasy I have been about you." 

'* Perhaps not," he replied, without seeming to 
regard her. 

'' I am really afraid you have caught your death 
this cool evening." 

'' O, you are too anxious about me, he answered; 
I do not feel myself dying quite yet." Tom ground 



190 TOM THORNTON. 

his teeth agEinst each other, as he overheard these 
repHes, 

They met at breakfast. The rich evening dress 
was changed for a simple robe; and Fanny looked 
as fresh as if she had bathed in the dew of roses. 
When the uncle and the husband were out of the way, 
Isaac gave such a turn to the conversation, as would 
lead to his object. Then he proposed a walk in the little 
wood near the house; and when they had entered it^ 
suddenly remembered some particular business, and 
left Tom and Mrs. Henley together. The Hght shawl 
caught in the branches, and what less could Tom do, 
than adjust it carefully over the finest shoulders in the 
world, unless we except the Venus — but hers are not 
living shoulders. There was a brook to pass, and an 
unsightly tree lying rudely across the path, and last of 
all happened that fatal though common accident — and 
the shoe lacing was seen trailing the ground. 

Before many'^ days Tom had lost all control over 
himself He had but one feeling and one thought. 
Isaac saw that affairs were going too fast. ^* The ' 
husband will be upon the trail and the sport be all 
up. We must have doublings and crossings ! 

The husband was not so quicksighted as Isaac fear- 
ed. He had always been jealous of his wife, and 
not without reason. Jealousy, however, like most 
passions, discriminates but poorly; and Mr. Henley 
had been as much alarmed and as impatient at little 
circumstances, a thousand times before, as he was at 
what was passing now. 

The uncle who was a looker-on, and knew well the 
wife's character and Tom's ardent temperament, joined 
with Isaac, though from opposite motives, in urging 
Tom to hasten his visit to his father from whom he 



TOM THORNTON. 191 

had received a kind letter calling him home. He had 
not lost his affection for his parents, but he was com- 
pletely infatuated. Day after day was fixed for 
the visit, and it was as many times put off. '* I will 
propose going with him, and to-morrow," said Isaac to 
himself '' I am not ready for the catastrophe. He 
must be more in my power. He must rake, he must 
game, he must want money." For the passion which 
Isaac saw in his cousin, for young Thornton, had 
worked up towards him the hate of a fiend. 

After much urging, Tom was ready, and they 
started. It was in vain that Isaac endeavoured to 
draw him into conversation. At length his home ap- 
peared in sight. It gave Tom the first happy feeling 
he had been conscious of since leaving Beckford 
house. It was with sincere joy he saw his parents, 
and his mother's tears touched his heart. With all his 
affection, he grew restless in a day or two, and pleaded 
his duties as a reason for his return. The old gentle- 
man had received from Mr. Beckford a letter hinting 
at Tom's dangerous situation. He took his son aside, 
and talked kindly and earnestly with him upon the 
subject. Tom at first denied that there was any thing 
to fear. ** Look carefully into your heart," said his 
father. Tom did, and then swore that he would think 
no more of her. — *' Oaths will not do it, my son; the 
mind must be bent up to fly the temptation, or you 
run to your ruin." — He promised to himself and to 
his father that he would; but the next day hastened 
to it with speed of fire. — ** I cannot show her in- 
difference at meeting, but at least I will appear com- 
posed," thought he. 

Upon reaching the house, Isaac went immediately 
to his chamber, and Thornton, upon entering the 



192 TOM THORNTON^. 

parlour, suddenly met Mrs. Henley alone. She sprang 
hastily towards him; then shrinking back, and glow- 
ing with what Tom took for shame, let fall her beau- 
tifully fringed lids. He spoke in a tremulous voice. 
She uttered a broken word or two; then lifting her 
eyes to his, showed them drinking deep of passion. 
He would that instant have folded her to him, but a 
step was heard in the room. He darted out of the house, 
muttering between his teeth something about his 
disappointment, and a curse on the fool who caused it. 

He walked on, his brain maddened with the tumult 
of passions within him. He was not sensible whither 
he was going, till he suddenly saw at his feet the 
grave of Sally Wentworth. He recoiled from it like 
a fallen angel fi*om the presence of the holy; and his 
abominations rose up black and awful before him. 
He felt like an outcast from heaven; as if the very 
dead condemned him, and shut him out as a creature 
unfit to lie down to rest with them. 

'^ The dead, the dead, no passions are torturing 
them; but shall I ever shake off mine.'"' He was 
leaning upon the grave stone, — his eyes fixed on the 
grave, — shuddering at his own passions, and think- 
ing on the quiet below him, when some one spoke. — 
'' Thomas Thornton," said the voice '*' it is well for us 
to be here." He turned suddenly, and met the solemn, 
but mild countenance of Sally's mother. She observ- 
ed the dark expression of his face. 

'^ That should not be the face of one who holds com- 
munion with the dead. What ails thee, man? Thou 
lookest like one condemned for his crimes, yet afraid 
to die. It is an awful thing so to live, as to fear to die." 

'* It is not death I fear, good mother, it is life, — it 
is myself.'' 



TOM THORNTON. 193 

'^ And dare you fear to live, and yet not dread to 
die, Thornton ? There is a double and a woful curse 
upon thee then." 

'' Do not you curse me, and standing here, too, 
lest the dead sanction it." 

''I curse thee? She that lies here, cursed not 
him that brought misery upon her. Neither would I, 
thee. It becomes not us to condemn one another. 
But I fear for you, Thornton, I fear for you. And 
did I not, the morning you left me, warn you take 
heed to your passions ? — I cannot talk with others 
here," she said, looking on her daughter's grave. — * 
She turned away, and he followed her. 

" I have looked to see you, day after day," she con- 
tinued, as they walked towards the house; '^ for I 
have taken more concern in you, than I ever thought 
to again in fellow-mortal. It has been whispered me, 
how you left home the night you knocked at my door; 
and it did my heart good to hear, a few days ago, that 
you had gone to see your father and mother. Nor for 
that alone was I glad, but that it might break the web 
which I saw a subtle spider weaving round you." 
Thornton coloured. *' You have not darkened this 
door," said she, as they drew up to the cottage. *'My 
eye has been upon you, nevertheless, at the house 
yonder." They both turned toward it. 

'* 'T is she! " cried out Thornton, '^ Where can she 
have been? " 

'^ Here, no doubt, and for no good purpose, I fear. 
For little have I seen of her for months past; and now 
she has but just missed you," added the old woman, 
casting a look of rebuke upon Tom. His cheek 
flushed a burning red; but his eager and impatient 
eye was fixed, like a hound in leash, on the figure at 
13 



194 TOM THORNTON. 

a distance. He stood for a moment silent, and lean- 
ing forward. ** How this heath opens wide round 
about her, that the world may see her move ! I must 
be gone, good mother." 

'* Hold, hold I " said the old woman, laying her 
hand on his arm, and fastening her eye on his fiery 
countenance, " Art mad? '' 

' ' Mad ? Ay, mad as the winds. She '11 be beyond 
reach instantly. I must go." 

*^ By the spirit of her whose grave you just stood 
by, I bid you stay."^ — His hands fell powerless, but 
his eye still rested on the object. She was ascending 
a rising ground; and as she reached the top of it, and 
her form appeared against a burnished evening sky, 
her long purple mantle waving in the winds, " She 
touches not earth," he cried, ''but moves in glory 
amidst the very clouds." 

'' Monster! " cried the old woman, in a tone of hor- 
ror, '' can you look yonder, and worship any but 
God ? " The voice went through him like a word from 
heaven. 

*' Mother, forgive me," said he, humbled and 
ashamed. 

'' Ask forgiveness of Him you have offended, and 
not of me." As she looked upon him, her heart 
yearned towards him as a mother's for her child. — 
He raised his eyes timidly towards the west once 
more, but she, whom he sought, had gone down the 
hill, and was out of sight. His countenance fell. 

" Would that she could pass so from your mind! " 

'' Would that I could be taught to wish it," he mur- 
mured. 

'' Turn then," said she, pointing to the sky, *' and 
learn to love the works that God has made, and still 



TOM THORNTON. 195 

keeps innocent — to love them because they are his 
messengers to us, the ministers of his power, the re- 
vealers of his love for us. To rejoice in them, to 
feel the heart thus moved by them, is true worship, 
O! I have stood, at an hour like this, and looked, till I 
have thought the light of heaven was opening upon 
me, and God was near me." — She turned once more 
toward Thornton. His countenance had become 
calm and elevated. — '* My son, could you learn to 
fill yourself with such thoughts as are now within you, 
the allurements of the world would be a tasteless 
show to you. But the heart must love something, — 
it must be sin or goodness." — There was a short 
pause. At last said the old woman, '^ She you hunt 
after is another's. She vowed herself his at the altar; 
and if it is a stain on her soul, would it for that be 
less a sin in you to wrong him? " 

'* I would wrong no man," said Thornton. 

*' What! can you say how far you will go, when 
you cannot stop now? " 

'' I will, I will, even now." 

*' Beware that you stumble not through too much 
confidence. Turn away from the temptation; for she 
who tempts you, I fear, is eager to draw you on. I 
would not speak it of her but for your good; " said the 
old woman, the colour coming to her pale cheek — 
*' for she was my foster-child, and has slept in these 
arms, and I loved her next to my own. But ambition 
and vanity and all unchecked passions have been busy 
at her heart. It was for houses and lands and a high 
place in the world, that she bartered herself; and 
she who will do that by holy covenant, may one day 
do it without bond. You are now going into the 
world again; but carry with you, if you would have 



196 TOM THORNTON. 

mercy on your soul, what I have said; and as you 
keep it with you, so will heaven bless you." 

He grasped her hand; and then turned and walked 
homeward. She looked after him till he was lost in 
the twilight; then shut her door with a misgiving 
heart. 

Thornton went directly to his chamber. He was 
afraid of Isaac's ridicule, and dared not trust himself 
with a sight of Mrs. Henley. He was melancholy 
and humble; but there was a virtue in his state of 
mind, which made him less impatient of himself than 
he had been for many weeks past. He thought of 
the widow and her daughter — of death, and what is 
to come, and his passions subsided, and the storm of 
the mind seemed clearing and settling away, and he 
had the quiet sleep of a good man. But the light 
and stir of day, which scatter our resolves and fill us 
with the present, came on; and the gay and beautiful 
vision of Fanny broke upon him with the morning sun. 

He sprang from bed; and in his eagerness to hasten 
down stairs, every thing was out of place, and fretting 
him with delay. None but the domestics were up. He 
walked out a few steps, returned, then went out again; 
and thus continued till the breakfast hour arrived. He 
met only Mr. Beckford and Isaac at table. His eye 
was constantly on the door. — '' Mr. Henley and lady 
left us about dusk last night, for the city," said the 
old gentleman. Thornton's countenance changed. — 
*' I fear you will never be a gallant," said Isaac. 
'^ To think that you should not be here, to bid so fair 
a lady farewell! But you may make such amends as 
you can, for we all move town-ward to-morrow." 

The next day they reached the city. — ''Make your- 
self ready," said Isaae^ *'for we are to go to Hen- 



TOM THORNTON. 197 

ley's to-night, you know." As they passed along the 
streets, the brilliantly lighted shops, the gay faces and 
the talk within them, and then the shadow of a build- 
ing thrown in straight line across the pavement, and 
some one stealing through it in silence, gave a sud- 
den contrast, and a strange mixture of open gayety, 
and mysterious stillness to the scene, which excited 
Thornton's mind, at the same time that he felt a cau- 
tiousness stealing over him. Then was heard the 
distant rumbling of a carriage. Presently it would 
shoot by them with a stunning rattling of the wheels, 
and sharp clatter of the horses' hoofs, now and then 
striking fire, and all would die away again in the 
darkness and distance. 

They at length reached the superb mansion of Mr, 
Henley. It was like entering into broad daylight. 
It shone like a fairy palace in the Arabian Nights. 
And there stood Mrs. Henley under a large chande- 
lier, richly and splendidly dressed; her fair skin 
sparkling with an almost metallic brightness, and her 
eyes full of light and action. At the first glance she 
coloured; but recovering herself with a practised 
readiness, gave Thornton a frank welcome, at the 
same time introducing him to the circle about her. 
Those who observed his confusion, set it down to 
bashfulness, and as such, passed it by. She was in 
full spirits, talked much and brilliantly; and his fine 
figure and face, his honest vehemence and hearty good 
nature, drew round them the choicest part of the com- 
pany. Then came the dance with all its windings 
and wavy motions; and her soft hand rested too long 
in his. The fingers of each trembled, and told what 
they should not. The flame was again lighted up 
withitt him, ^nd it rose and swept along with the rush 



198 TOM THORNTON. 

and desolation of a forest fire. He lingered as long 
as Isaac dared let him; and was at last half drawn 
away by him from the house. He passed the remain- 
der of the night, at one time calling himself a madman 
and villain, and then, in his hot impatience, swearing 
that no earthly power should bar him his way. The 
thought of her now fully possessed him. She saw the 
power she had over him, and loved it too well to risk 
it, by too easily yielding to his passion. He had no 
rest out of her presence, followed her wherever she 
went, and was at her house morning and evening. 

*'Tom," said Isaac, one day, 'Mo you know that 
the world begin to talk about you, and my sweet coz ? " 

'^ I care not for their talk. What have they to do 
with me or with her ^ ' ' 

''Much, my young blood, so long as you make a 
part of the world. And it is something to me, Tom, 
and touches me nearly. You know not your danger; 
but I must not let you bring disgrace upon any of our 
relations, however distant. Besides, the husband 
grows suspicious; and would you spill his blood, or 
throw so fine a girl out from fortune?" 

"God forbid," said he warmly. "Yet, I know 
not, Isaac, — my power over myself is gone. Save 
me, save me." 

" And so I will, if you will be a man. We must 
change the scene; and you shall see some good fel- 
lows, and be as merry as ever, I warrant you. Come 
along with me." 

Tom followed as if his self-will was lost. He 
talked and laughed and had his joke, and was called 
a lad of spirit. He drank to excess, and grew restiff. 
The cool Isaac kept an eye upon him, without being 
observed, and took him off in time. " This will suf- 



J 



TOM THORNTON. 199 

fice for a beginning," said Isaac to himself. '' We 
will minister a little more freely next time." 

Thornton waked languid, and full of remorse; still 
he found himself in a few hours at Henley's house. 
Isaac did not try to prevent it. He was only retard- 
ing the accomplishment of Tom's wishes, that he 
might ruin him altogether. Then came more riot and 
excess, and lastly, gambling. And Tom played rashly 
and lost; for he was trying to fly from himself, and 
cared not for fortune. And Isaac lent him money 
now and then, and oftener found other friends to 
furnish him. — All was ripening for Isaac's purposes. 

In the midst of this, Tom received a letter from his 
father, written in the anguish of the mind, and calling 
upon his son, if he v^ould not blast an old man's hopes, 
to leave the city and come to him. The letter spoke 
of Tom's mother, her distress, and the fondness with 
which, in the midst of it, she clung to her only child. 
Tom stamped upon the floor, with vexation and shame ; 
cursing himself as the vilest wretch alive. '^ I will 
go to them," cried he, '^I'll go, by to-morrow's light." 
The morning came, and then he thought of taking an 
eternal farewell, and the like. He lingered, and Mrs. 
Henley's carriage drove by. There was a familiar 
nod, and a smile, and his resolutions were again gone 
with the wind. That night he played, and lost, and 
grew angry almost to madness. Then came a duel. 
He was wounded, and called a man of honour. 

In a few days, however, he was able to visit at 
Henley's. Nothing interests a fashionable woman half 
so much, as a genteel young fellow with his arm in a 
sling, particularly if he received his hurt in a duel. 
Mrs. Henley turned pale when she saw Thornton; 
spoke breathingly of his wound, and asked a thousand 



200 TOM THORNTON. 

kind questions about it. — ** The hand hangs a little 
too low, methinks; let me shorten the handkerchief." 
And standing by his side, her arms were round his 
neck, as she was trying to untie the knot. Their 
hearts beat quick. Thornton could control himself 
no longer, but pressed her madly to him. Her head 
sunk upon his shoulder, while she murmured that he 
would be her ruin. There were vows of eternal love, 
and protestations of honour, and an assignation. The 
last at least^ was not kept, for Mr. Henley left town 
early the next day, compelling his wife to accompany 
him. He had heard and seen enough to raise his 
suspicions. He did not want courage to call Tom 
out, but relished little the thought of being pointed at 
as the unhappy man who had been engaged in an affair 
of honour with his wife's friend. 

When Thornton called in the morning, the house 
was shut up. He rung, but no one came to the door. 
After walking some time before the house, he returned 
to inquire of Isaac whither they had gone. Isaac 
could only conjecture. Tom uttered the direst impre- 
cations upon the jealous dolt's head. Isaac affected 
to be amused at Tom's wrath. 

'^ Why, the wench has jilted you, my young sprig. 
You stood shill-I-shall-I too long." But he bit his 
lips, and swore inwardly ; for all his plotting had come 
to nothing. 

'* I 41 hunt them the world through," cried Tom, 
" ere I '11 be thus thwarted." 

He went to his chamber, and found on his table a 
letter showing the greatest alarm in his mother, for 
his father's life. *' What! does death cross between 
me and her," exclaimed he, wildly. His blood curdled 
with horror at the thought of what he had uttered. — 



TOM THORNTON. 201 

— She has made me a child of hell," he cried, in the 
agony of the passions fighting within him. " Let me 
be gone, let me be gone from this place of sin." He 
reached home in time to close his father's eyes and 
lay him in his grave. There was something more 
than grief in him for his father's death. It was the 
fear that he had hastened it on. *' He was proud of 
me," said Tom to himself, " harebrained as I was. 
And I gave him hope, and in the midst of it, let a 
woman, who perhaps has forgotten me, cut it off ; and 
I have laid him in his grave, sorrowful and disap- 
pointed. He had a soul of honour; and I, who was 
his son, did all I could to wound him." 

The grief of his mother and her imploring helpless- 
ness took Thornton's mind off from its regret and 
painful thoughts, while it softened his heart, and laid 
it open to those kind and gentle affections, against 
which it had for a long time been shut. His manner 
to her was as mild, and soothing, and regardful, as if 
no headlong passions had ever stirred him: There 
was something almost parental in it. And when the 
time came that he should adjust his father's affairs, 
in order to go to sea again, he was delicate and gen- 
erous towards his mother, to an extreme. 

When the hour arrived for him to leave her, she 
hung round him, and wept bitterly. *^ There is now 
no one in all the earth left for me to lean upon, but 
you, Thomas; and my soul cleaves to you as all 
betwixt me and death. Remember your fond old 
mother, when you are gone from her. You will 
think of me on the seas, but, forgive me, Tom, you 
may not in the city." 

'^ Think not so hardly of me, my mother; my heart is 
not all seared yet. Can I lose all thought of you 



202 TOM THORNTON. 

any where, when perhaps," he said, brushing a tear 
from his lash, ^^ It is I who have made you so soon to 
be alone? No, I will remember you not only in sor- 
row and in hours of solitude and thoughtfulness, but 
bear you with me in my daily life, and think how dear 
are a mother's pride and joy in a good son." 

And when he left her, he begged her blessing with 
as submissive and meek a feeling as ever entered 
man's soul. Intimate affections and beautiful thoughts 
were forever shooting up within him; but his passions 
would sweep over them like a strong wind, and leave 
them torn and dead in the dust. 

He reached the city a few days before sailing. 
His composed, serious manner awed Isaac, and made 
him hate him more than ever. Thornton discharged 
his debts contracted with money-lenders, and found 
enough left out of his father's estate to pay Isaac. 
Isaac would have put oft*receiving it. — ^^ I shall never 
forget your kindness," said Tom. '^ But I cannot see 
why you would keep a friend under such an obliga- 
tion, and that too unnecessarily, and against his will." 
Isaac took the money without farther parley, with a 
resolution of perseverance in Tom's ruin, which, in a 
good cause, would have done honour to a saint. 

Thornton more than once passed Henley house, as 
he strolled out in the night; and he would stand and 
look toward it, till the bright figure of her he thought 
on grew luminous to his mind; and he would follow 
it till his eyeballs ached, as it past oft* into the dark- 
ness. The passion had been laid for a time, but only 
to burst out more violently than ever. Before, it 
took possession of him in the uproar of the mind, but 
now, it had become mixed with his deepest sensations 
and most serious purposes, 



TOM THORNTON. 203 

In a few days the ship bore him from shore. He 
was gone two years; but in all countries, through the 
hot and successful fight, in storm and calm, the sense 
of this woman clung to him like his very being. And 
when at last, he once more spied the gay city rising 
as it were out of the water, he leaped, like a child, 
for joy. — ''Neither man, nor land, nor sea, shall 
keep me from her longer. Some devil may have pos- 
sessed me, but I cannot, I will not struggle any more. 
She 's mine, come on't what may." — And he was 
given over to his terrible passions, with little to thwart 
them; for he found the elegant Mrs. Henley a gay 
and splendid widow. 

Thornton had returned, it was true, without money, 
but then he had the grandest face and figure in the 
world, and he was the talk of every body. Besides, 
as fascinating as the widow was, few men liked her 
extravagant and high spirit. 

Isaac put in for her favours, and was repulsed. 
He was silent, but the wound rankled. Old Mr. 
Beckford warned Thornton. Tom grew angry and 
avoided him; and Isaac helped on the match without 
appearing to do so. The old gentleman gave Mrs. 
Thornton notice; and she wrote to her son, imploring 
him to come to her, or, at least, not to plunge himself 
headlong into ruin. She called upon him in the 
name of his father, and as he cared for her life. It 
was all in vain; he would hear nothing, he would see 
nothing; he was married, and undone. 

For a time, all was blaze and motion and sound. 
No house was furnished like the dashing Mrs. Thorn- 
ton's, no parties half so splendid; and no dinners so 
costly, and got up in such taste, as the Thorntons'; and 
no ojie drove such a four-in-hand. And if high life 



204 TOM THORNTON. 

may in truth be called life, no one knew better how 
to live than the Thorntons. But it becomes our dis- 
ease, it breaks up our thoughts, and kills our hearts, 
and makes what should be individual and fresh in us, 
common and stale. Politeness becomes feigning, 
and the play of the affections is lost in the practice of 
forms. 

Thornton began soon to find it so; and to relieve 
its satiety, he pushed father into excesses. A kind 
of feeling, too, rather than reflection, was growing up 
in him, that beauty, and high spirits, and a bright, 
ready intellect in a woman, would not stand in the 
stead of principle, and delicacy, and a fond heart. 
His pride also was hurt, that instead of being looked 
up to w^ith kind regard, he was treated rather as an 
important part in a splendid establishment; that his 
fine person was praised, and elegant manners admired, 
and even his very mind valued, just so far as they 
served for an ornament, and a help to notoriety. 

He received frequent letters from his mother com- 
plaining of his seldom writing, and of his not coming to 
visit her in her deserted state. She spoke of her low 
spirits, her feeble health, and her concern for him. 
Melancholy reflections were made, of a general na- 
ture, but such as he well knew how to apply to him- 
self He saw that her love of him, her disappoint- 
ment and anxiety, were wearing her away ; and the 
awful thought that he was hurrying her to the grave, 
crossed him in his riot and excess. 

His power over himself was gone; he had become 
the slave of his passions; and they bore him along 
with a never resting swiftness. He found the woman, 
for whom he had sacrificed all that was worthy in his 
character, selfish and regardless of his feelings. The 



TOM THORNTON. 205 

disappointment made him hurry into dissipation with 
the craving appetite of a diseased man; and Isaac 
was always a friend at hand, to assist him. His wife 
was no less extravagant than he; and at last came 
borrowing and mortgages; and squandering seemed 
to increase as their fortune lessened. He ran into 
gaming to retrieve his circumstances, but with galled 
feelings and a fevered brain; and it made his condition 
the more desperate. 

Isaac's spirits rose, as he saw Thornton sinking. 
He assisted him as before in procuring loans, and lent 
him money besides. — '^ The day is near," said Isaac, 
to himself, ''in which I shall live to see that lordly 
spirit brought down. And my other end shall be com- 
passed too, let it cost me ever so dear. Yes, my 
proud madam must be supported in her magnificence; 
but the scorned and loathed Isaac must be wooed then 
like the dearest of men. What care I, though she 
feign it like the commonest of her sex, while in the 
bitterness of her heart, she secretly curses me in the 
midst of it? Does it not make fuller my revenge!" 

And on he went, wily and playfully, to his object. 
Though he had a spirit of avarice not to be glutted, 
yet he would throw out his wealth like water, to sate 
his hate or lust. He caused information of Thorn- 
ton's circumstances to be given to one of the credit- 
ors. He took care to be at the house when service 
was made. Thornton's wrath was beyond all bounds; 
he threatened the officer's life, swore it was his wife 
who had brought him to disgrace and ruin, and cursed 
his folly that he had ever married. She said some- 
thing sneeringly about half-pay officers. Tom's eyes 
flashed fire, and Isaac became mediator. — *' Upon 
my word, Thornton, my dear friend, you must com- 



206 TOM THORNTON. 

mand yourself, or this will get wind, and they will all 
be on you, like harpies. For heaven's sake, com- 
mand yourself. — My dear Sir, how great is the 
debt? Upon my soul, no trifling sum. Let me see — 
I have a deposit for a certain purpose. I must con- 
trive to meet that in another way; my friend must not 
be ruined thus." He^ made himself answerable to 
the officer. — ''And here, Tom, you must give this 
as hush-money to the man. You have used him too 
roughly." — All this was done in the presence of the 
wife. 

Affairs had now nearly reached the worst; and 
Thornton's disappointments and troubles had almost 
made a madman of him. When heated with wine, or 
loss at play, his rage made him dangerous, and he 
became the dread of his companions. Nothing but 
Isaac's plausible and smooth manner had any control 
over him; and with Isaac, Thornton was like a tiger 
with his keeper. 

Old Mr. Beckford, with the best intentions, fre- 
quently wrote Tom's mother about him. It only served 
to hasten the wretched woman's decline, and drive 
him on the faster, that he might shake off* the remorse 
which his mother's letters caused him. 

Isaac never shut his eyes upon his object; and as 
Tom's utter ruin drew on, and the time had nearly 
come for Isaac's fulfilling his plans, and accomplishing 
his last wish, it required all the hypocrisy of his na- 
ture not to break his purpose too soon to the wife. 
He knew that he had no strong virtue to struggle 
against, but something as stubborn, a woman's dislike. 
And he played his part well; he was humble, he was 
grieved for their situation, he spoke timidly of his long 
contest with himself to overcome his love for her, and 



TOM THORNTON. 207 

the misery it caused him; and shrunk back when he 
saw scorn on her lip. Then he spoke of his fortune, 
and his wish that he had been worthy to have saved 
such a woman from poverty, and the neglect which a 
hard world might one day show her. And so he 
wound his way. 

She hid not her contempt from him; she scrupled 
not to say that it was dread of poverty and of a fall 
from high life, that made her yield to the man she de- 
spised; that she had seen through his designs long 
ago. Still he supplied her with money to support her 
extravagance; and she made him throw her husband's 
obligations into the fire, before her, with his own 
hands. She yielded, and the man obtained that for 
which he had hunted hard for years, and the devil 
had his triumph. 

It lasted not long. Thornton's suspicions were 
awakened. He did not burst out in fury. Every 
passion within him settled down into a deathlike still- 
ness. His mind seemed suddenly to take all the 
shrewdness and ingenuity of the crazed in effecting 
their object. And he traced out, step by step, the 
windings of the subtle Isaac. 

At last, he tracked him to the place of assignation. 
The entrance was barred. He broke it down with the 
strength of an enraged giant. Isaac fled through 
another passage, as Thornton entered. Thoi'nton 
heeded not his wife ; his soul was bent up to a single 
purpose, and that a terrible one, and he saw no other 
object in the world. He followed with the speed of 
lightning; but passing swiftly by a narrow, dark side- 
passage, through which Isaac had escaped, missed 
his prey. He wound through the passages of the 
house, with the eagerness of a blood-hound, — then 



208 TOM THORNTON. 

through the by-lanes of the city, till he reached Beck- 
ford house. He asked of the servants, in a composed 
manner, for Mr. Beckford. He had gone out some 
time before, and had not returned. Thornton saw 
that they were not deceiving him. He walked the 
city the rest of the day, and returned at night to pre- 
pare himself for a journey, for he then concluded that 
Isaac must have left town. In a little while he was 
ready; but passed the night in further search. In 
going to and from the house, he did not seem to be 
sensible of the absence of his wife, or so much as to 
recollect that he had one. 

In the course of the morning, he learned that one of 
Beckford' s best horses was missing. In an instant 
he was mounted, and was soon out of sight of the city. 
Yet he could only conjecture Isaac's route. He con- 
tinued his pursuit till about night-fall, in perfect si- 
lence, and with his mind full of undefined thoughts of 
vengeance. 

He was riding along a dangerous, narrow track, 
near the edge of a precipice, at the foot of which v^as 
running a swift current, when, just as he was turning 
the corner of a rock, his horse's head suddenly cross- 
ed the neck of another horse, held by a man who 
was walking cautiously by his side. Though it was 
growing dark, and the man w^as muffled, Thornton 
knew him the instant his eye fell upon him; and spring- 
ing to the ground, with a shout, stood full before Isaac. 
The great coat fell from Isaac's ashy face. He could 
neither speak nor move. — '^ Have I youthen?" cried 
Thornton, grappling the trembling wretch by the 
throat, and lifting him upright off his feet. He gave 
a keen glance, for an instant, down the precipice, 
without speaking, and then looked doubtingly. — '' No, 



TOM THORNTON. 209 

no, I ']1 not take the dog's life so. — Hold! there! you 
curse of man," said he, drawing out his pistols, and 
handing one to Isaac. Isaac put out his hand to take 
it, without seeming to be conscious of what was to be 
done. '^ Stand there," said Thornton, '^ and make 
sure your aim, for the last hour of one or both of us is 
come.'' — Isaac's hand trembled so that his pistol fell 
to the ground. — ' ' Have ready, man, or you 're gone, ' ' 
screamed Thornton, frantic with rage. Isaac could 
not move. — '^ Down then," cried Thornton; and the 
fire of the pistol flashed over Isaac's wild eyes and 
convulsed, open jaws. His arms tossed upward in the 
agony of terror and death, and he fell over into the 
stream. His horse, rearing with fright, plunged with 
his master. 

Thornton looked over the precipice. Nothing was 
to be seen or heard but the whirl and rush of the dark 
tide. — '^ And can we go so quickly from life to death? 
Why then should a man live to misery? " 

He turned slowly away. The intense longing for 
revenge was satisfied, and he was now left feeble as 
a child. He mounted his horse with difficulty, and 
turned homeward, his brain stunned with horror. At 
last his mind grew slowly more distinct; and with the 
recollection of what had past, came frightful figures, 
which fell away, then suddenly rose again, and spread 
themselves close before him. He pressed his eyeballs 
till they darted fire, then passed his hand quickly be- 
fore his face, as if to drive away what he saw; but 
the terrible sight returned upon him. 

He delayed entering the city, till about dark the 

next day. As he entered it, the sudden change from 

the quiet of the country to the noise, the quick and 

various movements of the crowd, the broken lights and 

14 



210 TOM THORNTON. 

shadows, and flare of lamps, increased the confu- 
sion of his: mind, till it so wandered, that he scarcely 
kn^w,7jwhere he was when he reached his own 

iHte leaned forward on his horse for some time, 
trying to regain his self-possession. At last, looking 
up at the house, and observing it quite still and dark, 
the thought of his wife crossed him, for the first time. 
He leaped from his horse, and rushing up the steps, 
rang violently at the door. It was opened cautiously 
by one)he had never seen before; but such was the 
state *of his mind that he paid no regard to the circum- 
stance. Throwing open the door of the sitting room, 
he found it stripped of all its furniture. He hurried 
from room to room; all was bare and deserted. Then 
came the dreadful truth upon him, that he was beg- 
gared. The shock nearly unsettled him. 

He ran toward the street door, scarcely knowing 
whither he was going, when he was arrested by a 
couple of men, for debt. He made no resistance, 
but talking incoherently to himself, suffered them to 
carry him peaceably to prison. He laid down upon 
the bed that was furnished him, and soon fell asleep 
as quietly as if in his own house; for both body and 
mind had lost their sensibility, through violent effort 
and fatigue. 

The sun had shot into his prison with a red and 
dusty ray, before he awoke; and for a long time he 
could not recollect where he was, or what had passed. 
*'In prison, and for murder, and die on a gallows! '' 
— The turning of the key roused him a little. — 
''My brain's disordered." — A man handed him a 
letter, and left the room. He gazed on it some time, 
without noticing whose hand it was. — '' My God, my 




TOM THORNTON. 211 

mother ! ^' cried he, at last; '' And am I to be youT 
murderer too ! " 

Mrs. Thornton had heard from old Mr. Beckford of 
the attachment laid upon her son's property immedi^ 
ately after his leaving the city, and she had written in 
a state of mind that showed she could not much lon- 
ger endure her sufferings. Mr. Beckford, at her 
earnest request, had gone to her. His nephew had 
left town unexpectedly; but the only suspicion was 
that he had fled with Mrs. Thornton, and that her 
husband had now returned, after an unsuccessful 
search. Thornton's anguish was dreadful. His 
mother dangerously ill, and made so by him, and yet 
he not allowed to see her. — '' She will die, believing 
that I cared not for her; and yet I dare not let her 
know why I cannot see her." 

In a day or two came another letter, and from Mr. 
Beckford; for the mother was too feeble to write. 
Thornton's impatience was now almost maddening. 
At times he raved like a maniac, then suddenly sunk 
down into a state of torpor, till the remembrance of 
his father, his leaving home, the misery he had 
brought upon himself and his friends, again rushed 
upon him. Then would suddenly appear the face o-f 
Isaac, as he saw him die; and he would spring up, 
and stand as if frozen with horror. 

This was not to endure long. Mr. Beckford wrote 
a letter to him, stating that his release was procured, 
and urging him to set off immediately by the convey- 
ance furnished; for that his mother, unfortunately, 
had heard of his imprisonment, and that the shock 
had been a violent one to her, in her weak condi- 
tion. 

Thornton was standing in a state of apparent insen- 



212 TOM THORNTON. 

sibility, when the keeper entered with the letter. He 
did not notice that any one was in the room; but 
when his eye fell upon it, as it was handed to him, he 
seized it as a caged lion would his food. He ran his 
fiery eyes over it, then shook it from his hand as if it 
had been a snake he held. — '' This is not her blood," 
muttered he, looking closely at one hand, then at the 
other, as if counting the spots. ^' No, no, this is 
Isaac's, I know it well — my old school-fellow, Isaac's 
blood." He stood a few minutes perfectly still, then 
pressed his hand to his forehead, as if trying to recol- 
lect himself. — ^^ Where have I been? — Ha! I re- 
member now." 

^'My horse, my horse, — ^is he ready?" he asked 
eagerly of the servant, who was entering the apart- 
ment. 

'^ At the gate. Sir. But you are not ready." 

'' True, true! " And he suffered the man to equip 
him. He looked at himself for a moment, as if not 
knowing for what purpose he was so dressed. Then, 
as the thought struck him, he darted out of the prison, 
and running to the gate, threw himself upon the horse, 
and dashing the rowels into his sides, was out of sight 
in a moment. 

There was now but one purpose in his mind, and 
he clung to it with a spasmodic grasp; and the speed 
with which he rode, and his intense eagerness, nearly 
fired his brain. His eye was fixed on home — he 
saw nothing round him — he minded not hill nor hol- 
low. 

The horse's nostrils closed and dilated fast, and the 
sweat ran down his hoofs, when Thornton came in 
sight of the house. Once more he urged him on; — 
eud then he reached the door. He tossed the reins 



TOM THORNTON. 213 

on the neck of the panting beast, and throwing him- 
self off, was in an instant at the head of the stairs. 
The chamber door was shut. As he flung it open, 
he rushed toward the foot of the bed. On it lay, 
with a white sheet over it, the corpse of his mother. 
His hands spread, his eyes glared wide, and his hair 
stood on end. One shudder passed through his frame 
as if it would have snapped every stretched fibre. 
Tearing with a grasp the hair from his head, he gave 
a shriek, enough to have awakened the dead, and ran, 
mad, from the chamber. 

Old Mr. Beckford, hearing a noise over-head, step- 
ped to the parlour door, and saw Thornton coming 
down stairs. He called out. Thornton said not a word, 
but rushed by him, the hair sticking to his clinched 
fingers. As he passed, he turned his eyes on the old 
man — the sockets sent out nothing but flame. The 
old gentleman followed, trembling, to the door, and 
looked out, but he was gone. The noise came and 
went like a thunder-clap, and all was still again. 

He pushed eagerly on, not regarding whither he 
was going ; and the horse took the same course Thorn- 
ton did the first time he left home. 

At last Thornton struck upon the heath, and rode 
onward till he came where the way forked. His re- 
collection returned in an instant. He checked his 
horse suddenly, and looked over the track he had once 
passed. His hp quivered, and tears stood in his 
eyes. '' Ages of misery have rolled over me since 
then," said he, looking forward upon the track till it 
was lost in the distance. '' To the lefl;, to the left," 
cried he to his horse, pressing him on; '' for that, I 
then said, was ill omen, and now it suits me." 

After Mr. Beckford had laid the unhappy mother 



214 TOM THORNTON. 

in her grave, and had sent in all directions to gain 
some information concerning her son, he went to the 
city to make inquiries about his nephew. 

The horse was washed up near the precipice, but 
Isaac's body was never found. It was supposed that 
the animal had taken fright, and had fallen with his 
rider into the stream. 

Mrs. Thornton was soon heard of as appearing the 
dashing mistress of a young man in a distant city. 
Her extravagance and violent temper caused frequent 
changes in this sort of connexion, and she soon sank 
down into the lowest class of females of her order, and 
died as they die. 

As no account of Thornton could be gained, it was 
conjectured that ha had either destroyed himself, or 
had wandered away a maniac. It was autumn when 
he disappeared; the winter had set in stormy and 
cold, and some supposed he might have perished. 

In the early part of the day, towards the close of 
spring, as the widow Wentworth was taking care of 
a brood of chickens just hatched, a man, in a fisher's 
garb, drove up to her door. He was seated in a light 
horse-cart, old and shattered, and drawn by a small, 
lean horse. He inquired whether she could inform , 
him where lived a woman of the name of Wentworth. 

'' It is for me you are looking, I suppose, good man. 
What is your will ? " 

'' I would ask you to give me a morsel," said he, 
getting down from his cart, *' before I tell my errand; 
for I have rode ever since daybreak, and it has been 
but a chilly morning." 

After finishing his meal, he began as follows: — 
'' There was a strange young man made his appear- 
ance in our parts last Autumn; and he has been there^ 



TOM tHORNtON. 215 

abouts up to this time. It 's clear that he 's not alto- 
gether right here," said the man, touching his fore- 
head; *' but then he would harm nobody, and kept 
wandering about all alone; and so we never troubled 
him." 

*' Well, what of him? " said the old woman eager- 
ly; — for she immediately conjectured who it might be. 

'^I fear he's dying," said the man. *' He was 
not seen all along shore for many days; and some of 
us went to his hut; and there he was lying, looking 
like one of the dead. But he was sensible enough 
then, and begged that we would find a widow of the 
name of Wentworth, ( who I thought from his account 
must live hereabouts,) and bring her to him before 
he died; ' for,' said he, ' she is the only one of all the 
living that has any love for me.' " 

*' And did he tell his name? " 

'^ No," said the man. ''We asked him; but he 
said it was no matter, and that yon would remember 
him to whom you told your story, and talked so holily 
when the sun was going down. ' She '11 not have for- 
gotten it,' he said, ' as I did, when I most needed it.' " 

'' And think you he 's dying? " asked she. — '' It 
matters not," she said to herself 

'' There must be life in him yet," replied the fisher. 

'' I saw the tear glisten in his eye," she continued 
to herself, *' when I told him of Sally; and I have 
talked with him by her grave ; and I will lay him in 
the ground, too, when he dies. — Which way, and 
how far is it to the place, good man? " 

'' A dozen miles, or so, due east, as I guess." 

'' How am I to get there and back? " asked she. 

'' Even with me," he answered; '' for this is the 
only coach in all our neck of land, and this the only 



l216 TOM THORNTON. 

steed, ragged as he looks, except the poor young 
man's; and he 's in no better condition now." 

The old woman having found a friend to take charge 
of her house, began her journey. 

'^ We were all out a fishing, except our old woman," 
said the man, as they rode along. *' When we got 
back, she told us that a young man, a gentleman, and 
well dressed, had been to the hut two or three times 
for food, and that he always took it away with him. 
She would not receive his money, for he appeared 
not to be in his right mind. But he never failed leav- 
ing some on the table. Whether or not he knew of 
our return, I can't say; but we saw nothing of him, 
till one day, passing an old hut which we had left for 
a better, we spied him sitting at the door, and his 
horse feeding on the coarse grass near it. As soon 
as he discovered us, he went in, and he ever shunned 
us. We have seen him looking for shellfish among 
the rocks, and carrying home wreck-wood for firing. 
How he kept himself warm through the nights of 
winter, I cannot tell. But for aught we could find, 
dried seaweed must have been his bedding. We have 
sometimes left food near his hut; and his horse used 
now and then to share the scant fare of this pony 
here; for I could not but pity him, though a beast, 
when the sleet drove sharp against him." 

As they drew near the shore a heavy sea-fog was 
coming in. In a few minutes the sun was hid, and 
the damp stood on the nag's long, shaggy coat, like 
rain-drops. They soon heard the low growl of the 
sea; and turning a high point of land, they saw near 
them multitudes of breakers, foaming and roaring, 
and flinging themselves ashore, like sea-monsters 
after their prey. 



TOM THORNTON. 217 

They were descending slowly through the heavy 
sands to the beach, when they heard two persons calling 
to each other in a sharp, high key. The voices sounded 
as at a great distance; -but in a moment, they saw 
just ahead of them, and coming towards them, out of 
the spray and mist, a man, in a sailor's jacket, and a 
woman in one of the same, with a man's hat fastened 
under her chin by a red handkerchief A startling, 
mysterious feeling passed over the old woman, as if 
those she saw were something more than human, and 
were given another nature to be dwellers in the sea. 

** Is there life in him? " cried her guide, as they 
passed. — '^ Scant alive," called out the woman. The 
old widow looked back. They were passing into the 
mist, and were instantly lost sight of. 

They had not ridden far along the beach, before the 
fog began to break away, and the sea and sand flash- 
ed upon them with a blinding brightness. They drag- 
ged on a mile or two further, when the sky became 
gloomy, and the wind began to rise. 

'' And is all as desolate as this? '' asked the 
old woman, looking over the shapeless sand-hills, 
which stretched away, one behind another, without 
end, and seeming as if heaved up and washed by the 
sea, then left bare to sight. 

'* There is little that 's better," answered the man. 

'' And have you no other growth than this yellowish, 
reedy grass, that spears up so scantily out of these 
sand-hills?" 

'' 'Tis not so ill a sight to us, neither, who have 
nothing greener," answered the man, a little hurt. 
''And there 's a bright red berry that looks gay enough 
amongst it. But peace," said he, ''for here's the 
dwelling of the dying man." 



218 TOM THORNTON. 

The building was of rough boards, some of which 
hung loose and creaking in the wind. It was turned 
almost black, except on the side towards the sea, 
which shone with a grayish crust; and a corner of a 
decayed chimney was seen just above the roof. On 
the ridge of one of the sand-hills by the house, stood, 
with his drooping head from them, the starved, sharp- 
boned horse, the sand whirling round him like drifting 
snow. — '^ Poor fellow,'' said the man; '' when I first 
saw him, he was full of metal, and snuffed the air and 
looked with pricked ears and wild eye out upon the 
sea, as if he would bound over it." 

The old woman opened the door cautiously. A 
gray-headed man was sitting by a sort of crib of 
rough boards, in which lay Thomas Thornton, his 
eyes closed, his cheek hollow and pale, and his mouth 
relaxed and open. 

''Is this he," said she to herself, as she looked 
upon him, ''of the burning eye and hot cheek and 
firm set mouth, of fiery and untamed passions? I did 
not look to see you come to such an end, much as I 
feared for you. — May your sufferings here be some 
atonement for your sins. — All was not evil in you. 
Many have died happier than you, who had less of 
good in them; and have left a better name behind 
them than you will leave." — A tear dropped from 
her on his forehead. He opened his eyes sleepily 
upon her. The colour came to his cheek; he lifted 
his hand to hers with a weak motion, and looked to- 
wards the old man. — " Leave us alone alittle while," 
said the widow. 

He spoke. "I have been a sinful man," he said 
in a faint, broken voice. He paused, and his look be- 
came wild. — " My father, — and Isaac, Isaac — he 



TOM THORNTON. 219 

fell — and my mother— did I kill them all?" His 
eye appeared to fasten on an object in the distance. 
He then closed his lids hard, as if trying to shut out 
something frightful. 

'^ What looked you at?" asked the widow. 

'^ O, you could not see her. She is seen of none 
but me. I 've looked upon the sight a thousand times. 
I 've seen her shrouded body rising and falling with 
the waves, stretched out as it was on her death-bed; 
and it has bent not, and it has floated nearer and nearer 
to me, till I could look no longer. — -And there, too, has 
she stood for hours on that small white rock yonder, 
that rises out ot the sea," said he, trying eagerly 
to raise himself, and look out towards it. '* Yes, 
there has she stood beckoning me when the sun beat 
upon it; and I was made to look on it till its glare 
turned all around me black. I Ve tried to rush into 
the sea to her, though the waves ran so heavy be- 
tween us; but I was held back till the sweat streamed 
down my body, and I fell on the sand." — He gasped 
for breath, and lay panting. At last he recovered a 
little; and opening his eyes, looked slowly about him. 
His lips moved. The old woman bent over him, and 
heard him breathe out, '' God forgive my sins." 

'' God will forgive the repentant, however wicked 
they have been," said the widow. He gave a look 
of hope. — I 've asked it of Him day and night, when 
I had my mind; I've prayed to Him, stretched on 
the bare, cold rocks, and when I dared not look up. 
Will not you pray for me ? Will none of the good 
pray for me? " 

She knelt down by him, with her hands clasped, 
and looking upward. There was an agony of soul 
for a nioment — she could not speak. The tears 



220 TOM THORNTON. 

rolled down her wrinkled cheeks, and, then, she prayed 
aloud. And from the shore went up a prayer fervent 
and holy as ever ascended from the house of God. 
And the dying man prayed with her, in the spirit. She 
ended, and laying her hand on his forehead, said in a 
solemn voice, '' My son, I trust there is mercy for 
you with God." 

He looked upward and tried to clasp his hands. It 
was his last effort, and he sunk away with a counte- 
nance as placid, as if falling into a gentle sleep. 

The old widow stood for a few minutes gazing on 
the lifeless body. At last she said to herself, without 
turning away, — '^ He must not lie here, as an out- 
cast ; for the sands will drive over him, and there will be 
no mark where he rests. I will take him with me, 
and lay him by the stream near my home. And when 
I die, I will be gathered with him and with my child 
to the same grave." 



EDWARD AND MARY. 



" Oh, how this spring of love resembleth 

The uncertain glory of an April day ; 
Which now shews all the beauty of the sun, 

And by and by a cloud takes all away." 

Two Oentlemen of Verona. 

— " why, man, she is mine own j 
And I as rich, in having such a jewel. 
As twenty seas, if all their sand were pearl, 
The water nectar, and the rocks pure gold." 

Same. 



To love deeply and to believe our love returned, 
and yet to be sensible that we should not make our 
love known, is one of the hardest trials a man can 
undergo. It asks the more of us, because the passion 
is the most secret in our natures. All sympathy is 
distasteful except that of one being, and that, in such 
a case, we must deny ourselves. In our sorrow at 
the loss of friends, if we shun direct and proffered con- 
solations, we love the assuagings which another's pity 
administers to us, in the gentle tones, mild manners, 
kind looks, and nameless little notices which happen 
in the numberless affairs of daily life. But the man 
that loves and is unhappy, starts at a soothing voice 
as if he were betrayed; eyes turned in affectionate 
regard upon him, seem to search his heart; his way is 



222 EDWARD AND MARY. 

not in the path of other men, and his suffering must be 
borne unseen and alone. 

This severance from the world, this desertion of 
intercourse with man, gives a bitterness to grief 
greater than any evil life shares in, and yet here, we 
drink it of ourselves; we make our own solitude, root 
up the flowers in it, and watch them as they wither; 
we lay it bare of beauty and make it empty of life, 
and then feel as if others had spoiled us and left us to 
perish. Relief from troubles may be found in society 
and employment; but unprosperous love goes every 
where with a man; his thoughts are forever upon it; 
it is in him and around him like the air, breaking his 
night-rest, and causing him to hide himself from the 
morning light. The music of the open sky sings a 
dirge over his joys, and the strong trees of the forest 
droop over the grave of all he held dear. 

Thwarted love is more romantic than even that 
which is blessed; the imagination grows forgetive, and 
the mind idles, in its melancholy, among fantastic 
shapes; all it hears or sees is turned to its own uses, 
taking new forms and new relations, and multiplying 
without end; and it wanders off amongst its own 
creations, which crowd thicker round it the farther it 
goes, till it loses sight of the world, and becomes 
bewildered in the many and uneven paths that itself 
had trodden out. 

Edward Shirley was of a grave cast of charac- 
ter, much absorbed in his own feelings, yet with a 
strong affection for the few whom his reserve, and 
what some would call his prejudices, allowed him to 
take as intimates. He had read so much of wrong, ' 
and had learned to think that there was so little of 
true delicacy and deep and enduring love amongst 



EDWARD AND MARY. 223 

men to answer to what he felt within himself, that he 
was sensible of something like a distaste for the world 
at large. This was not a cause of triumph, but of 
melancholy to him, and an expression of mild delight 
was visible in his countenance whenever he saw at his 
father's a stranger of an open and benevolent aspect. 
His feelings were apt to fasten upon that which 
could not break upon his train of silent thought; and 
they grew more and more into an attachment to inan- 
imate objects and to brutes. He was forever in the 
fields; the beauties of nature made his chief delight; 
he was open to their purifying influences; and the in- 
nocence which God seemed to have stamped upon 
them, was almost religion to him. 

But we are made for other purposes than to have 
our interests begin and end in these; and he who has 
let his aifections grow where the brooks run and the 
buds are opening to the sun, will find at last that the 
love of some human being will twine the closer be- 
cause of it about his heart, and other joys and sorrows 
than those he had fostered under the blue sky, enter 
the deeper into his soul. 

It has been said that no man of genius or sentiment 
ever lived to twenty years, without being in love. It 
is in some sense true ; for if he does not find a living 
idol, he will make one to himself, and be a constant 
and fervent worshipper of that. When Edward was 
asked how it happened that such a romantic youth as 
he had never been in love, he answered, ^' I have 
been so, and for a long time, but my mistress is here, 
in the brain, and it is the only one I shall ever make 
knee to; for," he added, ''the only woman that I 
could love, must come so nigh in all high qualities to 
her who lives in my imagination, that did she really 



224 EDWARD AND MARY. 

live, she would scarcely deign to look upon such a 
thing as I am; so, as for women, I think not of them." 
— This he said with a smile, but with a heavy heart; 
for there were strong cravings of the affections, and 
he felt daily more and more the inanity of life. As 
he patted the head of his brother's boy, he said to 
himself, ''Am I never to be a father? And shall I 
die, and leave no child to bless me? Shall I go out 
of the world with no one of all the living to feel a 
peculiar grief for me?" The time, however, was at 
hand, when Edward was to learn that real love was a 
more serious thing than that love which the imagina- 
tion conjures up. 

Mrs. Aston, with her daughter Mary, had lately 
taken a small house near the estate of Edward's father. 
She was left with an income so small as to require of 
her the most simple mode of life ; and her grief at the 
death of her husband had so absorbed every other 
feeling, as to render this no hardship to her. 

The father of Mr. Aston left a good estate, but a 
great number of children. The son married young, 
during his father's life, with no definite views of the 
means of supporting a family. He had been used to 
plenty and elegance at home, and like most young men, 
never once considered how small an estate a division 
of his father's property would leave him. 

Soon after his father's death, he found that his 
estate was fast diminishing, while he had a wife and 
children to support. Being but little acquainted with 
the world, his plans were badly laid and worse man- 
aged ; poverty was eating in upon him, not rapidly, 
but as surely and fatally as the sea gains upon the 
shore; and his spirits began forsaking him almost as 
fast as his acquaintances and friends. Though he 



EDWARD AND MARY. 225 

had never rested his happiness upon society at large, 
nor estimated himself by its opinions, yet remembered 
courtesies, taken with present neglect, went to his heart, 
when he thought of his wife and children, and looked 
forward to what awaited them. He grew languid in 
body, and brooded over immediate and dreaded evils, 
till a gloom settled down upon his mind, and his faculties 
seemed falling into a kind of uneasy sleep. He was 
roused from this for a short time by the last feeble 
and irregular efforts of worn out nature. As he sat 
in the easy chair by his bed, a few days before his 
death, there was a tranquillity in his voice and manner, 
and a benign composure in his countenance, as if 
the inspiring light of the world to which he was going, 
had already entered into his soul. As his wife gave 
him his cordial, — ''Heaven," he said, '' seems to 
have ordained it in mercy to those we love, that we 
should need their care so much, and ask of them so 
many attentions in our last hours. It breaks the 
thought that would otherwise fasten wholly on the loss 
they must soon bear; and their affliction is a little 
soothed, so long as they administer good and ease 
to those who are about to die. And I feel," he 
added, ''how much, as the last and true tokens of 
love, they take from the bitterness of the separation 
which death makes sooner or later between us all.'' 

"Why do you talk thus, Alfred?" said his wife. 
" You have been much stronger for two days past. 
Hopes of better years than those gone, will be medi- 
cine to you. And why should you not hope .^ A change 
may come for you as well as others; and those who 
knew your father may do a kind office to his son, be 
it but in honour of his memory." 

" There is but one change for me, my love," he re- 
15 



226 EDWARD AND MARY. 

plied; '' and as to the dead, their good deeds go out 
of the memory of this world, as surely as they them- 
selves enter into another. The concerns of the world 
are ever shifting — its interests and relations; and he 
who was in regard yesterday, will not be thought of 
to-morrow. But though there is too much of forget- 
fulness and selfishness amongst men, I would not 
blame them now, nor question the providence of God, 
which out of this evil brings good, by making men ac- 
tive and considerate of ends. Let me rather take 
blame to myself; for though it may be from a defect of 
nature in me, and not from any want of disposition or 
endeavour, that my condition in life has been a hard 
one, yet I might have known my weakness, and have 
avoided a responsibility I could not answer. To love 
you as I have done from the time I first saw you, to 
this my last hour, has surely been no crime in me, and 
if making that love known to you and shutting my 
eyes on those consequences I should have foreseen, 
has been a fault in me, the sufferings I have undergone 
will, I trust, be some atonement for it. 

'' My children," said he, turning towards them, 
''beware lest the ingenuity of men lead you to act 
against what you feel to be a virtuous impulse, for 
there is almost as much error of the head as of the heart 
in man. At the same time, do not trust wholly to what 
seem innocent impulses, especially when they fall in 
with your desires, for what is in itself innocent may 
become evil from the relation it may Bold to others; 
so that it is not enough to consider it abstractly, but 
to cast about and ask yourselves w^hat may be its ef- 
fect in now connexions now and in future. Guide in 
this way your virtues by your wisdom, and you will 
have much of deep enjoyment now, and little to re- 
pent of hereafter.*' 



EDWARD AND MARY. 227 

Though this was a scene of severe grief, (for Mr. 
Aston was loved by his wife and children with an ar- 
dour and sincerity which few deserve or enjoy,) yet the 
composure of his manner tranquillized them, and their 
tears fell in silence. 

'Vl have talked too much, and must lie down.'' 
They helped him to his bed; and he soon fell into a 
gentle sleep, with his wife's hand in his, and never 
waked again. 

As soon as the painful concerns following Mr. As- 
ton's death were closed, his widow moved to the house 
I have spoken of. It was a place not without its many 
recollections to her, for she had been often in it when 
a child, and had frequently met Mr. Aston there when 
he was a cheerful young man. 

Entering a dwelling in which we had lived many 
years ago, brings together the past and present with 
a distinctness nothing else can. It is always with 
some tinge of melancholy, even to those who have 
prospered in the world; for let that world have gone 
with us as well as it may, more of disappointments 
and troubles, than of pleasures come to our minds at 
such a time; and those pleasures which are remem- 
bered as having happened ii\ the spot we stand on, are 
thought of, not as so m^ny which we had enjoyed, but 
as so many lost to us forever. The trial was a hard one 
indeed to Mrs. Aston. When left alone, and when the 
events and feelings of many years came altogether to 
her mind, in the agony of nature she uttered a sorrow- 
ful cry. She had lived to see her full hopes blasted ; the 
misery of anxiety had mingled with her love; and the 
man who had made, as it were, her existence, and who 
might, she thought, have led a happy life had he never 
known her, had died of a broken heart. — '* I could 



228 EDWARD AND MARY. 

have borne your death, Alfred, had some common 
sickness taken you from me. I could have lived for 
our children; and the memory of you would have been 
an angel of comfort to me. But to know that a wasting 
sorrow of the mind made life comfortless to you who 
had a heart for its best joys, and cut you ofFso soon; — 
how can I bear it! O, look down upon me, and teach 
me how ! " 

The affectionate manners and constant kind atten- 
tions of her eldest daughter, Mary, at last touched her 
mother's heart, roused her from her abstracted grief, 
and made her once more sensible that there were living 
beings for her to love, and towards whom she had 
many duties to fulfil. 

*' Have you seen your new neighbours ? " said Har- 
riet Shirley one day to her brother. 

" They were at Church last Sunday, but so veiled 
that I could not see their faces. To tell you the truth, 
I should hardly dare see the daughter's. Her form 
is the finest I ever beheld; and I am sure there was 
never so much beauty of movement without a mind 
answering to it." 

'' There 's a scrap of your theory again. Upon my 
word, Edward, you will go mad in love theoretically." 

'^ I am half afraid of it myself, for in my walks I 
have seen her more than once floating before me in 
the sunbeams." 

*' O, shame on you, for a lover! Sunbeams, in- 
deed! Moonlight, my dear brother — you must set 
out with melancholy and moonlight, or you will never 
come to a proper end. That half-drawn black veil 
against a pale forehead! How interesting! And all 
over black, indeed — the very Black Nun herself. 
How could you think of throwing any thing less sof 



EDWARD AND MARY. 229 

than moonbeams over such a form? Now don't give 
me that look of grave reproof If I do trifle out of 
season, it is not that I do not feel." 

''Heedlessness often causes as much pain as bad 
intention, Harriet; and think of it as you may, will 
more or less harden the heart of those who are guilty 
of it. I know you are a good girl, for all your rattle, 
and much better than you seem. But there is no need 
child, of playing the ' hypocrite reversed,' when there 
are hardly examples enough of goodness to keep virtue 
in countenance." 

''You are right, Edward, you are always right; 
and I will try to follow your advice ; but you must first 
follow mine. I am a generous-hearted girl, and will 
give it you without your asking. By a mere glimpse 
of this Miss Aston, she has gotten into your imagina- 
tion; and unless in good time you see something more 
of what you would call the humdrum reality, you will 
be so far gone in love shortly, that when you do at 
last meet with her, you will be lost, to a certainty. 
So, before it is too late, come along with me, and rid 
yourself of your fairy vision." 

They turned up the narrow, grassy lane which led 
to Mrs. Aston's house. It was bounded by an old 
irregular stone-fence, over which ran a few straggling 
wild vines, while the setting sun was pouring its rich 
light upon the yellow, green, and stone-coloured mosses 
which coated over the wall. The branches of the 
cedars, under which they were walking, lifted and fell 
with a fanning motion to the night breeze, and here 
and there a bird was singing her farewell to the sun, 
as she swung upon them. A turn in the lane brought 
them opposite the house. It was an old structure, 
projecting in front over the basement story, and run- 



^0 EDWARD AND MARY. 

ning up from the coving into three sharp triangles, 
looking as bold and fantastic as the general officers 
in the old prints of the Duke of Marlborough's bat- 
tles. Edward felt as much reverence for the edifice, 
as he would have done for one of those venerable old 
gentlemen of Queen Anne's time, had he made his 
appearance. 

Mary Aston did not see Edward and his sister, as 
she was intent upon training up a honey-suckle to one 
of the carved urns pendent from the projection of the 
house. Edward stopped to v^atch for a moment her 
delicate white fingers, as they moved among the 
leaves and flowers. Her mother was sitting in the 
porch, with her ejes fixed upon the shaggy house dog, 
which was once her husband's. The dog was lying 
upon the step, with his neck stretched out over the 
door-sill, and resting partly on his mistress' feet. He 
was the first to notice the visiters. He turned round 
his head, got up and shook himself very deliberately^ 
and then looked up in his mistress' face, as if asking 
how he was to receive the new comers. 

''Mary," said her mother, rising. — Mary looked 
round, and then came forward a little. Harriet intro- 
duced herself and brother with her wonted easy cheer- 
fulness, tempered by the situation of the strangers. 
She apologized for having put ofiTher call so long, by 
saying it was from the hope tTiat her mother would 
before then have been well enough to have accom- 
panied her. 

'' I heard that your mother was not well; and do 
not know but that I should have waved ceremony, 
and called in to see her, when walking out with Mary 
some evening; for I remember having met her in this 
very house; and I believe we liked each other well 



EDWARD AND MARY. 231 

at the time. There are so few early connexions left 
to us late in life, that I should not willingly give up 
those I could retain." This was a general reflection, 
but brought with it the remembrance of her husband; 
and the momentary effort in overcoming her feelings 
showed itself in her countenance. 

''Will you walk into the house?" said Mary to 
Harriet and her brother, *' or should you like better 
a seat here in the open air this bright evening? " 
'' For my part," said Edward, taking hold of the 
broken string around which the honey-suckle had 
wound itself, '' as I have interrupted you in your 
work, I will now help you finish it, if you will permit 
me." There was a delicate respect in Edward's 
manner, which gave an air of kindness and attention 
to what in others would have looked like mere 
officiousness. Besides, he had a tact for character, 
which kept him from any show of sudden intimacy, 
where it would not be understood and frankly received. 
It is said that sagacious dogs possess the same 
quality. It was certainly so with Argus; for what 
with his fawning, and the fair hands of Mary kindly 
saving the plant from harm, Edward scarcely knew 
what he was^ «bout. He began with tying the bow of 
the knot first — it slipt, and the vine fell upon Mary's 
arms. This was not making the matter any better, 
and in the second attempt the knot was tied in the 
wrong place. 

'' The dog is troublesome," said Mary. *' Get you 
out of the way, Argus." 

" 'T is all my awkwardness, Miss Aston. You 
must not drive Argus away. It makes me better 
pleased with myself to be liked by a dog; and Argus 
seems to take to me so much that I hope, — I hope, 



232 EDWARD AND MARY. 

he and I shall soon be fast friends. I will not blun- 
der so again." — The knot was tied, and so was 
one which Edward could never undo all his life 
after. 

What little things, falling in with our dispositions, 
determine the course of our affections. The liking of 
an old family house-dog, acting with a first impres- 
sion, did more to fix Edward in favour with Mrs. As- 
ton and her daughter, than any one of the party was 
aware of. 

'' What has my brother been about? Why, I de- 
clare. Miss Aston, you will make a very florist of him. 
At home he never thinks of moving one of my plants 
into the sun for me of a cold day. He scarcely looks 
at them; and says that he had almost as lief be shut 
up in a room full of stuffed birds, as in one so stuck 
round with flowers and flower-pots. To be sure, he 
brings home a pocket-full of mosses now and then, and 
sometimes, a poor little field-flower; but if I ask what 
it is called, I get but the ploughboy's name for it; 
for under its formal botanic title it is no longer a po- 
etic being to him." 

*' You forget my study window woodbine, which is 
of my own planting and training." 

''Why, so I did; though, if I chose to deny that 
you had one, nobody would believe you, after such 
bungling work as you made with Miss Aston^s just 
now. And now that I think on't, you have nursed 
yours in that particular place, merely because when 
you were young and foolish enough to believe the story 
of little 'Jack and the Bean,' you stole half a dozen 
green beans from the cook, and planted them there to 
see if you couldn't climb up to the moon, as well as 
Jack; and failing of growing beans, you set out the 



EDWARD AND MARY. 233 

woodbine as a remembrancer of unsuspecting inno- 
cence, and a memento of early hopes disappointed." 

''Do you make sport of all your friends in this way ? " 
asked Mary; ''or has your brother good-naturedly 
consented that you should spend your merriment upon 
him, that you may spare your other friends? I hope 
there is some such compact between you, else I must 
always be upon my guard with you." 

" As to a compact, you will know all about that one 
of these days. I 've no doubt your sagacity will find 
it out soon enough for me. In the mean time, I would 
advise you to go on independent of my foolish humour; 
for, be assured, however like paradox it may look,, 
nothing so lays people open, as aiming to act always 
upon their good behaviour." 

" You speak with a wit's confidence. Miss Shirley; 
but as your observation sorts well with my own judg- 
ment, I '11 e'en follow it. And if my heedlessness 
brings down your ridicule upon me, I shall, at any 
rate, have one to help me bear it," said she, slightly 
colouring, as her eyes met those of Edward, turned 
with a serious earnestness upon her. 

How hard it is at certain times, when we are most 
in need of it too, to find something to say! — except 
to the practised, who are never tortured by embarrass- 
ment, and never wanting to themselves. Harriet had 
moved forward to speak a word or two to Mrs. Aston, 
and Mary and Edward remained together, feeling suf- 
ficiently awkward, and all the while conscious that 
the embarrassment of each was known to the other. 

We are forever searching after great and marked 
causes for important events, and cannot be content to 
let our deepest and strongest feelings come from the 
small, unnoticed incidents of life. Yet an unthought 



234 EDWARD AND MARY. 

of word dropped in discourse, the voice that utters it, for 
the momentary look that goes with it, oftentimes thrills 
us more, and enters with a more quickening sense 
into our hearts, than all the purposed and well ordered 
terms of rhetoric. To those who have something which 
makes them kindred to one another, these are beauti- 
ful revelations of each other's nature. Delicate and 
according minds hold intelligent discourse, in half ut- 
tered words, and shifting movements, and passing 
expressions of the face: It is like the imagined in- 
tercourse of angels, whose thoughts and feelings are 
interchanged by strange and wonderful sympathies, 
and need no tongue to speak them. It is so in early love, 
with those whose characters are in agreement. And 
so was it in the present case. Not that Edward and 
Mary entered into a self-examination of their hearts; 
but a peculiar delight was felt by each for the first 
time, and life seemed a new existence to them. 

'' It is a fortunate thing for me," said Edward, at 
last, '' that I have a multitude of foolish things about 
me, for my sister to make amusement out of She 
would scarce care a jot for me, were I apiece of per- 
fection. She says that she cannot away with those 
proper folks who never commit themselves." 

'' Her interest in the world will not be likely to 
lessen, if it measures itself by people's inadvertencies 
or follies," said Mary. 

'^ What she are you talking about?" said Harriet, 
turning round. '^ Are you putting your heads together 
to make mutual defence and secret alliance against 
my declared hostility.^ Come, I must break this up 
in good time. Your mother is going into the house, 
Miss Aston, for it is growing chilly. And don't you 
see the mist wreathing up along the meadow yonder." 



EDWARD AND MARY.. 235 

'^ It will do no harm to us to-night, Harriet, for the 
moon is rising betimes to keep it down in the lowlands ; 
and if you will ask Miss Aston to walk to the end of 
the lane with you, I will insure her a walk back safe 
from all colds." 

" I hardly know whether I shall ask her," said 
Harriet, at the same time taking her arm within her 
own and walking on;" for you must know, Miss A.ston, 
that though my brother generally avoids our sex, yet, 
when caught amongst them, he is one of the most 
scrupulously polite gentlemen in the world. Now, 
think of his situation when we reach the end of the 
lane! Could he see you returning by the dark, giant 
trunks of all these trees, without a protector ? And yet 
it would never do to leave me standing alone, though I 
am his sister. What a ridiculous embarrassment he 
would be thrown into, a step forward and then a step 
back, till brought to a perfect stand-still." 

'^A Garrick between Tragedy and Comedy, my 
sister." 

'' True, but with an opposite leaning. And as you 
would have to choose one and refuse the other, if I 
were to represent Comedy, as in such case, I presume 
I needs must, it is plain enough. Sir Melancholy, what 
would be my fate." 

'' Your imagined difficulty is all over now, Miss 
Shirley, for here comes one who has been my brave 
gallant this many a day," said Mary, patting Argus 
on the head as he made up to her side. '' I have half 
a mind to turn you off with him and ask Mr. Shirley 
to wait upon me, to punish you for all you have said 
to-night." 

" That would hardly be fair. Miss Aston. My 
sister's ridicule might hurt the poor fellow's feelings; 



236 EDWARD AND MARY. 

and, though very sagacious, the odds might be against 
him at an encounter of wits." 

Here, with one common and blending sense of hap- 
piness, they reached the gateway, and then parted 
for the first time. How vaguely busy the mind is at 
parting, after a first meeting, where the heart has 
been at all touched. 

From the air of politicians, it must be a mighty 
easy matter to see into the causes of the great changes 
in the world. There is scarce a word of truth in ail 
they say, let them talk about it ever so plausibly. 
From your intangible, theoretic German, down to 
your mere matter-of-fact man, who dates Buonaparte's 
overthrow from the rise of sugars in France, they are 
all wrong. The causes assigned by each may have a 
share in what is done. So, we may cut a twig, and 
set it in the ground, and keep the earth loose about it; 
and in a few years what diminutive things we look 
like under its long, cool branches! Its growth is as 
hidden as it is silent, and when it lays itself out upon 
the air, a beautiful mystery, with its web of glossy 
leaves interwoven with golden sunshine, do we look 
up into it with any other feeling than that of glad 
worsihp? And yet we know more of its origin, and 
had more to do with making it what it now is, than we 
have part or knowledge in a tythe of w^hat we decide 
on so familiarly. 

If outward and noted events keep us so in igno- 
rance of their nature, what are we to do with the 
subtile movements of the mind? They are quick or 
slow, they agitate us violently or are scarcely felt, 
hurry us suddenly forward after what we a little before 
followed sluggishly and at intervals, or turn us about 
in pursuit of that which we had passed by with indif- 



EDWARD AND MARY. 237 

ference; and all from causes so strange or so hidden, 
that we cannot comprehend them, nor search them out. 

Edward, within an hour or two, had passed through 
some of the most sinjple and ordinary events that take 
place in our common intercourse ; yet he had come out 
of them altogether changed. He who had looked 
with an idle eye, and with an estranged mind upon 
what was the concern of others, found his being, in 
an instant, swallowed up in that of another. — ^' How 
gross is every thing else on earth," said he to him- 
self, '^ compared with the beautiful refinement of a 
woman!" And how monotonous and tame and indis- 
tinct was the former being of his imagination, at that 
moment, compared to Mary Aston! 

After walking home in silence with his sister, he 
continued rambling about. The house was too close 
and confined for him. There was a quick and warm 
pulsation through him, and his frame was expanding 
and beating with new life. Beautiful images of the 
brain were coming and going fast and bright as the 
light, and all things that drank the moist night air and 
slept under the moon, or shone and moved beneath it, 
gave him a new delight, and he loved them more than 
ever. He was not sensible how far he had wandered, 
till the low, broad chimney of Mrs. Aston's house 
met his eye, as it stood out in strong and sharp relief 
against the moonlight. Though alone, the colour 
rose in his cheek and he felt a beating at his heart. 
His soul was in a moment laid open to him. What 
he had not been conscious of as being any thing 
more than one of those bright and hopeful moments 
which visit us sometimes, we know not why, when 
'^ an unaccustomed spirit lifts us above the ground 
with happy thoughts," he now found to be one of the 



233 EDWARD AND MARY. 

most serious circumstances that can happen to a man 
of sentiment; and he was forced to acknowledge 
to himself that he was in love. 

Almost all men, at some time or other, are carried 
out of their course by influences that act upon them, 
with the power and silence of the currents of the ocean, 
and ignorant how to keep their reckoning or careless 
about it, the bigger part are wrecked. Edward found 
that he had been swept unconsciously along. Still, all 
was so beautiful, that he did not consider whither the 
stream was carrying him; for the clouds, and jutting 
rocks, and islands with all their trees upon them, 
glassed themselves in the sea, and made a fairy show 
for him to gaze down upon. 

He drew near the house. As he moved along un- 
der the branches of the large trees, their noise over 
his head was like that of the surf. There was some- 
thing ominous and wizard-like in the confused and 
wild multitude of their motions and sounds ; and a 
melancholy foreboding crossed his mind like the 
shadow of a cloud. As he passed out from under- 
neath their shade, his cheerfulness returned; and as 
he looked toward the dwelling of Mary Aston, he felt 
a blessing on him. The uncouth variety and conceit 
in the old building looked more grotesque than before, 
in the moonlight; and the shadows of the odd peaks 
and projections, falling at random upon it, seemed 
like the fantastic creatures of the night, holding their 
games in its sides and nooks. It was a tolerable 
representation of the mind of him who was looking at 
it. For images and thoughts were going through that 
without order, and of which he knew not whence they 
came, or whither they tended. His intellect and his 
sensations were under the sway of some powers with- 



EDWARD AND MARY. 239 

out him, which at one time expanded him with joyful 
hopes, and then again withered him with fearful and 
causeless despair. He lingered near the house a 
long time, till at length the sense of the endless dura- 
tion and of the continued going on of life, with which 
nature impresses us, gradually gave a steadiness and 
cheerfulness to his thoughts; and the fixed sky, and 
bright moon, and the image of Mary Aston, altogether 
wrought his soul to harmony, and he returned home 
tranquil and happy. 

A real lover is quite an unaccountable creature 
when awake; it would be altogether in vain to attempt 
describing his dreams. Edward did not wake in the 
morning, however, in that state of composed indiffer- 
ence in which we generally are when coming out of 
sleep. Before he was roused to a full possession of 
his faculties, there was a vague notion of something 
important to be done, or of some uncommon event in 
which he was concerned. 

He did not find his sister at the breakfast-table, to 
tease him and divert him from his silent abstraction. — 
He grew more and more restless as the day advanced — 
his books seemed dull — he was wearied of sitting 
still, and as tired of walking. When we are in per- 
plexity from having forgotten what we came after, we 
go back to the place we started from, to set all right. 
Had he followed this method and gone to Mrs. 
Aston's, he would have rid himself at once of all his 
uneasiness. He was sensible enough of this. — ''It 
is not within rule," said he to himself '' What pre- 
posterous things these rules of society are — for all 
but blockheads and impertinents." One in love must 
be allowed to say so, yet he is wrong. We all stand 
in need of these rules, more or less;, and if they some- 



240 EDWARD AND MARY. 

times appear merely troublesome, a little trouble is 
well for the best of us. Facilities, for the most part, 
do more harm than good: children of the next gener- 
ation will find it so, and thank us little for what our 
half vanity and half affection are now so busy about 
for them. 

Addison has written an essay showing why it is 
harder to conceive of eternity as never beginning, 
than as never ending. Edward was as much puzzled 
to set bounds to his day, as w^e are to think of eternity 
without days. It closed upon him at last; and the 
next went on the same way, till he found himself, near 
the end of it, in a narrow lane back of Mrs. Aston 's 
dwelling. 

Though Mary Aston possessed much of that equa- 
bility and patience of temper, for which women are so 
proverbial, it would look like a repetition of what has 
just been said, to describe her feelings since she had 
parted from Edward. She had walked out towards 
night-fall, that the cool air might refresh her, and 
without being at all conscious of it, from a feeling 
which goes for hope, but which perhaps has more of 
wishing than of expectation in it, that before she return- 
ed she might see Edward. Our wishes often give us 
expectations, but they as often direct our conduct 
where we have nothing to hope for. If they can do 
it in no other way, they will bring it about by putting 
us into a kind of fanciful state, and making the ima- 
ginary pass for the actual. It is not very wide of that 
condition which a child is in when he is mounted upon 
a walking-stick and plays it is his horse. It is a little 
ludicrous and mortifying, that wise and tall men should 
be caught in this way riding their own canes, so we 
will say nothing more about it. 



EDWARD AND MARY* 241 

The colour rose in the cheek of each, and their 
manner was slightly embarrassed, as they suddenly 
met in the lane; but the tremulousness of the voice 
told better than these, what was at their hearts. Ed- 
ward of course passed the evening with Mary and 
her mother. '* You must pardon my staying to so 
late an hour. I am not a frequent visiter, but I never 
know when it is time to go." This he said as he rose, 
and against all rule, leaned over the back of his chair. 
It was some time before he quitted this, and there was 
longer lingering at the door-step; for Mary's voice 
made music so soft and clear in the still night air, 
and her eyes, turned upward to the moon, were so 
like a kindred Heaven, answering to that over their 
heads, — how could he quit it all, to be alone again? 

'* Is it you, Mrs. Aston, or Mary,'' said Harriet 
one day, *' who has wrought such a change in my 
once steady brother.^ Formerly he was never abroad, 
and now is never at home. I can answer the ques- 
tion myself He comes to moralize upon the sin and 
vanity of the world, along with your mother, Mary* 
He rarely talks to girls like us; for he says he sel- 
dom meets with any who do not show that they are all 
the time having an eye to themselves, let the subject 
they are conversing about be ever so serious or im- 
portant. In his brotherly fondness, he would make 
me an exception, I dare say, did I ever talk seriously. 
The most I ever arrive at is to make him laugh, and 
be called a rattle-head, for my pains." 

^* His remark, I fear, is as true as any general one 
may be," answered Mary. '' And he might have ex- 
tended it to those of his own sex, though a little 
qualified, perhaps, had he been as much inclined to 
observe them. The truth is, both girls and young 
16 



242 EDWARD AND MARY. 

men appear to more advantage when conversing with 
the old of an opposite sex, than with those of their 
own age. I always take most satisfaction in talking 
with men who are turning gray." 

'' Should not Mary in all fairness except my grave 
brother, Mrs. Aston, who goes about looking as if he 
was always thinking upon something, as our old house- 
keeper says? '^ 

"That were scarce necessary," said Mrs. Aston, 
not observing the flush which her reply threw over 
Mary's face. '' I never met with a man who seemed 
more s-ificere and in earnest in what he was about. 
Besides, there is so much of the propriety of princi- 
ple in his manner, which keeps off all encroachment, 
without any appearance of his being on his guard, 
and such a simple and unostentatious delicacy, alto- 
gether unlike that showy complaisance which passes 
for good breeding, but is exceedingly vulgar, be- 
cause it supposes an inferiority in him towards whom 
it is displayed, — that I should argue ill of the discern- 
ment, and almost of the character of one who did not. 
upon a first acquaintance, feel the beauty of his con 
duct." 

" What a compliment I have to carry home to my 
brother,'' said Harriet, going. 

'' You must not carry any from me, Harriet." 

"• Why not. Madam? They are the best things in 
the world to put folks in good humour. I always man- 
ufacture one for my prim aunt, when I go to pass the 
day with her, as I sometimes am obliged to do, because 
my mother says it is proper to visit our relations." 

"Perhaps your aunt is too old to be injured by 
them," said Mary; "yet there is nothing in the 
world which has turned so many wise folks into 
fools." 



EDWARD AND MARY. 24S 

*' I will be even with you for your Mt at my aunt's 
vanity, Miss Mary. And to pay you for your philoso- 
phy, which ill becomes a Miss in her teens, I shall 
dress up the compliment as well as I know how, and 
with a happy vagueness, leave my brother to conjec- 
ture whether it be from mother or child." 

'* Don't put your brother upon any such guesses. If 
you needs must repeat it, let him know that it came 
from an elderly lady, and not from a young one." 

*' Now, I did not expect that from you. Ma'am, 
who had just said so much about his wisdom; and 
when it was but the other night too, that he talked so 
gravely about virtue's only being sure when resting 
wholly on itself, and finding its satisfactions within, 
and not in distinctions that attend it abroad. Come, 
Mary, you sha'n't look so gravely at me," said Har- 
riet, as Mary followed her to the door. '' You need 
not fear me. And even if I should divert myself with 
some idle story, my brother thinks too justly of you, 
1 trust, to take any thing of the kind that I may say, 
for more than mere foolery." Mary returned the 
pressure of Harriet's hand, and wished her cheerfully 
a pleasant walk home, as she sprang lightly from the 
step. 

Mary went happy to her chamber, reflecting upon 
the warm manner in which her mother had spoken in 
praise of Edward, and thinking her the best mother 
that ever lived. 

Though Harriet was no go-between, and despised 
match-making as heartily as it deserves to be; yet she 
had such a love for her brother, and took so deep an 
interest in all that concerned him, and was so desirous 
that he might shake off that melancholy which too 
often preyed upon him, by finding an object for his 



244 EDWARD AND MARY. 

affections to fasten on, that she could not avoid show- 
ing how happy it made her to find that there was so 
much of sympathy between Mary and her brother. 
Upon her return home, she could not help letting fall 
certain expressions and remarks which referred to 
Mrs. Aston's opinion of him, and at the same time, 
showing what she surmised were Mary's feelings. 
This she did cautiously and in a playful way, for 
she well understood that Edward was not a man to be 
talked to, or to talk of his affections; and she knew 
how to respect him for it. 

'^Am I not sure that she loves me.^'' said he one 
day, as he shut his study door. '^And why should I 
delay? Is it not trifling with myself, and what is 
more, with a woman of delicate and ardent feelings?" 
He had asked himself these very questions before. 
And those who go to proffer terms of marriage with 
certificates of property and letters of recommendation 
in their pockets, must think him a very odd sort of 
fellow to make such a pother about that which so 
many have done before him off hand. Some are 
blessed with an undisturbed worldly wisdom, while 
others are carried to and fro, or hurried or delayed 
by impulses and sensations made up of exquisite plea- 
sures and acute pains over which they have little con- 
trol. Heaven help these last. The first can take 
care of themselves, at least for this world. 

There are men of a certain refined sense, brave 
men too, and with not a whit of awkward bashfulness 
in them neither, who, even where they knew the 
affection to be mutual, could no more tell a woman 
that they loved her, just when they chose to fix the 
time for doing so, than Cowper could have spoken in 
the House of Commons. 



EDWARD AND MARY. 245 

Urgent business of his Father's prevented Edward 
for some time from seeing Mary. When he did, it was 
the mild evening of a warm day. The parlour door was 
open, and he entered the room and drew near the 
window where she was sitting, without being observed 
by her; for she was lost in painful reflection. To feel 
neglected by him would have been hard enough to 
bear; but the fear that Harriet, in her thoughtless 
chat, had said something which had lowered her in 
the opinion of Edward, was intolerable. The ill opin- 
ion of such a man was almost enough to make even 
the innocent feel the shame of guilt. 

The melancholy of those we love, when a token of 
their interest in us, gives us almost as deep a delight 
for a time, as when we think we make them happy — 
perhaps a deeper. For almost any one may move 
another .to pleasure, and the degrees of pleasure can- 
not always be distinguished. But when one is in grief 
from some small circumstance, in love, we have an 
assurance that there can be no mistake. When Ed- 
ward looked upon Mary's fine face, and saw it over- 
cast, and said to himself, ''This is because of me," an 
exquisite joy thrilled through his heart, at the same 
time that she was dearer to him than ever. His voice 
betrayed his emotion as he spoke to her; and suddenly 
raising her eyes, she saw his grand, serious counte- 
nance lighted up with a smile full of love. There was 
an answering one in Mary's face, mingled with an 
expression of confusion, and something like pain from 
surprise and the suddenness of the change in her 
feelings. This was a fine moment for a lover. Not 
so for Edward ; he was too full of delightful sensa- 
tions, and could only look on in still rapture. When 
he at last spoke, his words had little to do with his 



246 EDWARD AND MARY. 

immediate thoughts, and he was as far from his pur- 
pose as before. She moved a little, and Edward sat 
down by her in the old window-seat. Her beautifully 
turned arm, and tapering, dimpled fingers, were rest- 
ing on the window-ledge. — ''Did I ever see that 
ring before ? " said he. 

" No, for I have just received it. * It was a seal- 
ring of my grandfather's,' " she added, half laughing. 

*' Whether your grandfather's or a younger man's," 
he replied, looking somewhat anxiously in her face, 
'' it is a very curious one." She was half offended 
and half pleased at this show of jealous regard. — 
*' Upon my word, Mr. Shirley, do you think that it 
is my way to wear young men's rings?" — Then 
changing her voice to her usual tone; — '' It is rather 
a singular one. Will you look at it?" she said 
frankly, at the same time drawing it from her. finger. 

If we are not very careful, we cannot take so little 
a thing as a ring from another, without the hands 
touching slightly; nor is it very easy for two persons 
to examine curiously so small a matter without their 
heads coming very near to each other. It is ten to 
one that, at any rate, you will feel some stray, curling 
lock touching every now and then against your fore- 
head. You may know that is not your own, by the 
thrill it sends through the brain and bosom. There 
is a breath too, pure as air, which reaches you: — 
there is no such atmosphere in the whole world for 
sensations. There needs no talking at such a moment ; 
there is a close and silent communion of the thoughts 
and wakened senses, by which we understand each 
other better than we could by words, though we culled 
the choicest from the language of every nation on the 
globe. Even the tones of love, in their utmost soft- 



EDWARD AND MARY. £47 

nesSj would break up the beautiful working of the 
charm, at such a time, and turn all to common life 
again. 

It was Mary who took the ring off, but it was 
Edward who put it on again; and it was done with so 
much respectful delicacy, and with so gentle a touch 
of the hand, that a dedicated nun could not have been 
offended at it. Mary's heart beat quick, and as her 
eyes fell on the ring, that heart asked, Is it not a 
pledge of his love? 

It was, indeed, love that had done it all; but it was 
inaudible love, love that understood not itself, nor why 
it had done thus. It was the bud of love, and the 
hour had not yet come for its opening. 

The conversation took a moralizing turn, and a 
good deal was said about the feelings — not in a pro- 
sing way. There was a closer intimacy in the cast of 
it, than there had been before. They knew the char- 
acter of each other's minds and dispositions as well as 
if they had lived together for years. Some will say 
this is impossible. The opinion of such persons may 
be true enough, so far as concerns themselves, and 
half the world beside. Most people might as well be 
married by proxy, like princes, as to any knowledge 
they have of one another's character at the time. 
And it is a pity that many of them could not remain 
in their ignorance, so badly are they sorted. The 
most they ever arrive at is a sort of unwillingness to 
be long apart, from a habit of having been much 
together. There are peculiar people, however, who 
get as much into what is essential in each other's 
character in half an hour's acquaintance, by what is 
said, and the manner in which things are said or done, 
as others would, should they pass together the lives 



248 EDWARD AND MARY. 

of a patriarch and his spouse. — Then, says one, you 
are a believer in love at first sight? — I believe that 
such a thing may be, or something very like it. 

They were walking in front of the house, when the 
time came for Edward to return home. ^' Stay a 
moment, Mr. Shirley; late as it is, you must help me 
about my woodbine once more, before you go; for see, 
the wind has thrown it down." — As they were training 
it up, their eyes met, and their looks showed to each 
other that the time when they first saw one another, 
and all which had passed since, were in their thoughts. 

*^What did you think of me then?" said he. 
^* When? " she asked. And half ashamed of feigning 
ignorance of what she perfectly well understood — 
'' Think of you? Why, much as I do now. and as I 
trust I always shall.'' 

'' If I interpret this according to my wishes, shall I 
be right?" 

'' I hope so," she said, colouring; '^ or what could 
your opinion be of me, else? " 

'^The same as it always has been and must be. 
For much as I should suffer to be without your esteem 
and kind regard, Mary, you will always have mine. 
I would say more, but, I know not why, I cannot 
now. Need I say it? You know what I feel, for I 
have ever shown myself to you what I am, though I 
cannot to all the world. — All is not well at my heart 
now. 'Tis strange. I was the happiest man alive a 
moment ago. No matter; — we shall meet again 
to-morrow. Whether we meet or not, whether good 
or ill come to me," he said, taking her hand within 
both of his and pressing it earnestly, *' may God's best 
blessing rest upon you, Mary." — His voice faltered. 
— Mary tried to speak. It was in vain. Her lips 



EDWARD AND MARY. 249 

moved, but there was no sound. She raised her eyes 
to his with an almost imploring look. She was not 
given to tears, like the rest of her sex, yet they filled 
her eyes now. Edward kissed away one that stood 
on her cheek, and hurried from her with a bewildered 
mind. 

Are not our feelings sometimes sent, like holy proph- 
ets, to make us ready against evils which we see not^ 
but which are nigh at hand? Edward continued his 
walk till a late hour, that he might rid himself of the 
feverish restlessness which tormented his body and 
mind. 

Mr. Shirley had been from home for a couple of 
days, and had returned during Edward's absence. 
As Edward drew near the house, he saw a light in 
his father's study. He perceived by the frequent 
darkening of the lamp that some one was walking the 
room with a rapid pace. His feelings were in a state 
to bode ill. It was unusual for his father to be up at 
so late an hour, and Edward remembered that for 
several days before his leaving home, he had appeared 
anxious and abstracted. Edward's character was so 
matured and of so serious a cast, that his father treated 
him rather as a companion than a son. He entered 
the house, and went immediately to the study-door 
and knocked. — *' Who's there?" called out his father. 

^at is I, sir." — '^O, Edward! Come in!"— In- 
stead of turning and giving Edward his hand as usual, 
Mr. Shirley continued walking the room without 
noticing him. Edward looked at his father. The 
room shook as he walked it to and fro, and the foot 
seemed to grasp the floor at every step. His arms 
were folded with a convulsive closeness over his 
breast. The muscles of his face worked hard, and 
the blood was beating quick through the clear, high 



250 EDWARD AND MARY. 

veins of his temples. — "I have been waiting for you 
this hour," said he at last in an under voice, and 
without turning his head. His pace grew quicker 
and quicker; and every fibre of his body vibrated with 
agony, and seemed stretched till ready to snap. — 
'' You are all beggars," he cried out at last, throw- 
ing himself into his chair and gasping for breath. 
Edward's alarm for his father scarcely left him con- 
scious of what he had said. He went to him, and 
leaning over him, spoke in so affectionate a voice 
that it touched him to the quick. The tears started 
to his father's eyes: — it was the first time he had 
ever suffered man to see one there. He grew com- 
posed at last, and bracing himself to the act, told his 
son all that had happened. 

It appears that Mr Shirley's fortune had been an 
ample one; but having attached certain notions of 
princely grandeur to wealth, he had, in a moment of 
ambition, put the whole at stake in expectation of doub- 
ling it; the speculation failed and he lost nearly all. 

'^ You are much exhausted, sir," said Edward, 
after talking with his father a long time; *^ you must 
go to bed and endeavour to sleep. In the morning 
we will see what can be done. I hope all is not so 
bad as you think." '' Good night to you, Edward," 
said he, much moved. '' I hope this news has not 
come too late to prevent your involving another in our 
calamity. If not, I know you have too much princi- 
ple in you to bind such a woman to your hard fortune, 
let the effort to stop short cost you what it may.'' '' I 
know not — I hope, — I fear. — " ''We will not talk 
of that now," said his father pressing his hand; and 
Edward left the room. 

For a man of a shy disposition and retired habits, 



EDWARD AND MARY. 251 

who has nurtured all his romantic thoughts in solitary 
musing, whose intellectual being is made up of 
sentiment and imagination, and who has never thought 
nor cared for business nor gain, to attempt of a 
sudden to change his very nature, and ignorant as an 
infant, to find out for himself through the intricacies 
of trades or professions a way amid shrewd, and cal- 
culating, and knowing men, is almost a hopeless un- 
dertaking. Though Edward did not want energy or 
perseverance, he was not presumptuous; and under- 
standing his own character thoroughly, and how far 
nature and education had unfitted him for a man of 
business, he was too well principled and generous to 
endure the thought of connecting another with his 
desperate fortune, and of feeling that while he was 
vainly struggling on, her life was wearing away in 
delayed hopes. 

As the door shut upon him, it seemed as if every liv- 
ing thing had quitted him, and he was left alone upon 
the bare earth. Though his passions were deep- 
rooted, and the smallest fibres of them were alive 
with the love of Mary, his father's sufferings had 
made him for the moment forgetful of his own. And 
now that he was left to himself, and saw that he was 
shorn of all hope, it was the thought of Mary that 
wrung him. — ''A few hours ago, Mary, and you 
came to me with the elastic spring of a glad and fond 
spirit, and your countenance opened and brightened 
like the morning upon me. It is all over now ; the light 
is shut out, and you must wither in the cold and damp 
which is ready to fall on you. I could endure my 
own sufferings, and go to my grave alone, sooner or 
later, as God might will for me; but I cannot, I can- 
not bear the thought of what you will suffer — you 



252 EDWARD AND MARY. 

whom I have taught to love me so." — He continued 
walking the room till the birds began sending out 
short, broken notes, and stirring themselves in the 
trees. He went to his chamber, and over wearied, 
fell into a short, uneasy sleep. 

Though Edward's feelings were stronger than fall 
to the lot of many, they were of that deep kind, and 
with such a mixture of the intellectual, as left to his 
firm mind a self-control. He met the family at break- 
fast with a composed countenance; and immediately 
after, went with his father to the study, and assisted 
him, as far as he was able, in adjusting his papers. 
All was in order in a few days to deliver up to the 
creditors. As they were few, and gentlemen who had 
a full reliance upon Mr. Shirley, every thing was 
done so as to spare his feelings. He was sensible of 
it, with mixed pride and gratitude. The family were 
to leave the mansion and retire to a small house, 
which, with a trifling income, was all that was left of 
the estate. 

^^ Harriet," said Edward, the morning after he was 
made acquainted with his father's loss, *'will you 
write to Mary and tell her what has happened.^ I 
cannot see her till every thing is adjusted. It would 
unman me ; and there is much to be done, and my 
poor father must have all my assistance. — You must 
command yourself better," said he in a low and steady 
tone. — ''I will, I will, Edward; but I could not have 
loved a sister better; and I have almost lived upon 
the thought of late, that I was to see you both so happy 
soon! It is all over now.'' — Edward hurried out of 
the room. 

In a few days the family were ready to depart. 
They entered an old family coach, and drove off as 



EDWARD AND MARY. 253 

silently as if following a friend to the grave, Edward 
was to remain behind till every thing was delivered 
up. The furniture was sent away to the city to be 
sold, and he was now ready to follow his parents and 
sister. 

So long as there remained any duties for Edward 
to fulfil, he bore up firmly against this sudden destruc- 
tion of his hopes. The unrelaxed and intense effort 
had nearly exhausted both mind and body, and yet 
the hardest trial of all was to come. He was to meet 
Mary, and to part with her, perhaps, forever. *^ Only 
a few days ago, thought he, while I was absent from 
her, I was impatient of every thing till the hour came 
that I was to meet her. I scarcely dare think of 
doing it, now." 

The solitude of the house oppressed him, and 
seemed to forebode evil. ** I can bear it no longer; 
something terrible haunts me." — Ashe was hurrying 
out of the house, old Jacob, the only domestic left 
behind, met him at the door. '^ Where are you 
going this sad night, Mr. Edward? The mist drops 
from the leaves like rain, and a heavy storm is set- 
ting in. It has been brewing all day long, and begins 
to stir hard in the trees." 

*' So much the better, so much the better," mut- 
tered Edward, pressing forward; then stopping a 
moment, — " have every thing ready to start by sun- 
rise, Jacob." 

" It will be hard to tell that time to-morrow. Sir," 
answered Jacob, as Edward was shutting the door, 
*' if I know what the weather will be from one hour 
to another." 

The night had nearly shut in, and the rocks and 
trunks of trees, which were almost black from the 



254 EDWARD AND MARY. 

dampness which had been upon them the day through, 
seemed to Edward's disturbed mind like gloomy 
monsters watching his steps, as he half caught their 
forms through the thick twilight, while he was hasten- 
ing by them. '' Is this the place where I first walked 
by the side of Mary and heard her voice?" thought 
he, as he passed along the avenue. '^ It is all changed, 
and I am left alone." 

He drew near the house. It was lost in the dark- 
ness, except where the heavy mist reflected back the 
light of a candle in the parlour window, giving through 
the dimness to the peaks and juts the appearance of 
pale, uncertain flames shooting up into sharp points. 
]Vo other light could be seen. — ''How quietly it 
shines! And is all within as tranquil as that flame .^ 
No, Mary, I will not wrong you; you could not so 
forget me." 

As he came nearer to the house, his blood throbbed 
quicker; and he started at the sound of the beating of 
his heart. He waited a moment to gain a little self- 
command. The door was opened to him, and he en- 
tered the parlour. Mrs. Aston was in the room alone. 
As she turned and saw the pale and worn countenance 
of Edward, she started; but suddenly recovering her- 
self, she went up to him and took him kindly by the 
hand. '' Why have you kept away from us so long ? " 
inquired she in a gentle but agitated voice. *' You 
do not take us for summer flies, I know Mr. Shirley." 

'* O, if I did, madam, I should not come now to 
trouble you this last time." 

''Do you go so soon? Are we not to see you 
again? " "I must go to-morrow," he answered hur- 
riedly. " Whether I shall see you again, I know 
not, I cannot tell." 



EDWARD AND MARY. 255 

'' Better days will come to you; you are but a very 
young man yet, Mr., Shirley." 

Edward shook his head, but made no reply. They 
both continued for some time silent. Edward at last 
approached Mrs. Aston, and said, '' Can I see Mary 
for a few minutes before I go? " — A slight colour 
rose in his cheek, but the sad expression of his face 
was unchanged when he said, " It would be childish 
in me, dear Mrs. Aston, to suppose that you are 
Ignorant of my feelings. But," he added, the flush 
of pride heightening his colour as he spoke, '' I be- 
lieve you know me too well to fear that, unskilled in 
affairs as I am, and with little reason from my cast of 
character for hope of success, I can be so weak or 
selfish as to bind another to me in my evil fortunes." 

''1 need not answer that, Mr. Shirley." The tears 
tilled her eyes as she put out her hand once more and 
gave him her blessing. She left the room, and meet- 
ing Mary, told her that Edward was below. 

He was walking the room with a hurried step as 
Mary entered. She attempted to go towards him, 
but her frame shook, and she tottered towards a chair. 
He sprung forward and caught her before she sunk to 
the floor. Her face was deadly pale, and her eye 
for a moment glazed. The sound of his voice recall- 
ed her senses, but as she raised her head, there was 
a wild and haggard look of misery in his countenance 
that made her shudder, and she covered her eyes with 
her hand. — '' Do you shrink from me Mary } " '* O! 
no, no, Edward. But do not, do not look so strangely 
on me. Look as calm and kind as you spoke then, 
and I will never turn from you." — Her head fell 
upon his shoulder, and she sobbed audibly. — Ed- 
ward's face was turned upward; his mouth moved 



S56 EDWARD AND MARY. 

convulsively — he would have prayed aloud for bless- 
ing and comfort on her. An inarticulate sound was 
all that reached Mary's ear. She raised her head 
suddenly and gazed upon his face. How was it 
changed! Affliction had not left it, but there was a 
brightness, a rapture in it, which she could almost 
have worshipped. It was one of those passing exalta- 
tions of the spirit which sometimes in our misery lift 
us for a moment above the earth. It left him, and 
his countenance fell. '' Is it gone, is it gone? " cried 
Mary; '' and is there no comfort left us? " 

'^ None; none, at least for me, in this world." 
'' O, do not add to my misery, Edward, by being 
ungenerous to me. Do not say that I can change and 
find comfort, when you cannot." 

'^ Forgive me, Mary, I did not mean to be unkind. 
I scarce know what I say — my brain has been sadly 
bewildered with what I have gone through in a few 
short days. But this parting would not, you know it 
would not be so hard to me, could I believe you a 
creature made to change. Sit down by me and hear 
me a moment, and then I must leave you." — He 
spoke so low and with so much effort that his voice 
was scarcely audible; yet there was something fear- 
fully determined in it. — '' I cannot blame myself for 
having given way so far to my feelings to-night. After 
what passed between us when we last met, Mary, it 
would have been unmanly, it would have been a base 
insult to the delicacy of your character, for me to 
have treated you otherwise now than if you had ac- 
knowledged a return of my love for you. — I have 
told my father — I scarce know what I have told him. 
Your mother knows all. And here, — all must end 
here. We must part, Mary!" 



EDWARD AND MARY. 257 

''All? Then all is to be as though it had never 
been. Say you so, Edward? " 

'' Do not mistake me, Mary; — we must not part in 
unkindness. There is enough of woe without that. 
Though I will not give over without a hard and long 
struggle, jet I am poor now, and something tells me, 
that with all my efforts, I shall die so. The seal is 
on me, and I shall carry it to my grave. I hope, I 
hope it is not far off. Could I but see you happy, it 
would be some consolation to me. No, no, it would 
not. I could not bear that all which I have dwelt upon 
as so peculiar and lovely in your character should 
change, even to relieve you from what you suffer. Yet 
you must not be bound to me by any understanding 
between us. I know there is that in you which will 
always make me dear to you. Surely I need not speak 
of myself, — but, I see it! You will never be mine!" 

''Are we to meet each other no more then? Are 
we to live only in the memory of each other, and 
without hope? I will be sincere with you, Edward, 
and will not add to what you suffer, by saying that 
you could not make this sacrifice, did it cost you 
what you tell me it does. I know," said she, raising 
her eyes to his with a look of confidence, '' the 
struggle will be as hard to you, and endure as long, 
as with me. I could not say more. Miserable as it 
will make us, I know that your feeling is grounded in 
honour. And though it may seem to have connected 
with it a doubt whether time and absence may not 
change my love for you, I could not wrong you so 
much as to think you could be so suspicious of me. I 
know you better, Edward, indeed I do." 

'' This is noble and generous in you, Mary," said 
he, pressing her to his heart. '' I did not look for all 
17 



258 EDWARD AND MARY. 

this, even from you. How can I part from you ! — Yet 
I must — It must be done now," he cried, starting sud^ 
denly from her. In an instant he was ready. As he 
turned, she came to him. There was a hopeless mis- 
ery in her face. She flung her arms about his neck, 
and hung powerless upon him as he held her to his 
bosom. 

''Mary! Mary!" he repeated. She made no an- 
swer. The wind drove violently against the window, 
and the rain dashed against it like a flood. She shiv- 
ered as if the cold blast struck her. '* Must he go, 
and in the storm and rain too," murmured she to her- 
self — At length she raised herself a little. — ''Do 
not fear for me, Edward; — it is past, — I am better 
now. Go! go!" He stood for a moment — he would 
have said something — it was all in vain. He caught 
her madly to him, and then darting from her, left the 
house. 

Mrs. Aston heard the door shut after him. She 
went down to her daughter, and found her sitting, 
leaning forward with her eyes fixed on the door. She 
did not move them as her mother entered; and there 
was a stupor over her countenance. Mrs. Aston 
took her by the hand, but she did not appear to heed 
it. — " You must go to bed," said her mother, putting 
her arm round her and gently raising her from the 
chair. She made no answer, but suffered herself to 
be partly carried to her chamber. When she was in 
bed, her mother sat down by her; but she seemed not 
to notice it; and presently fell asleep, as if unconscious 
of what had happened. 

The night was so dark that the atmosphere was 
like some deep black body directly before the eye. 
Edward hurried forward down the avenue. The treeSj 



EDWARD AND MARY. 259 

which raved and roared in the wind like fiends of the 
storm, served to guide him by their sound. As he 
quitted them, and their noise died gradually in the 
distance, he groped his way homeward. He reached 
the house with a mind as bewildered as in a fearful 
dream. The instant change from the tumult and up- 
roar of the storm to the stillness and calm within 
doors, brought back what had past, with terrible sud- 
denness. He went into the room where Jacob was 
sitting, waiting for him, and taking up a lamp, passed 
by without looking at him. — '' Poor Mr. Edward,'^ 
said Jacob to himself, as he took the remaining light 
to go to bed; '' it is hard that you, who are so good 
should suffer so." 

Edward could not go to rest. He went into his 
father's study, and then from one room to another, 
traversing the whole house. He was for a while in 
that vague and idle state which the mind is thrown 
into at intervals, in extreme suffering, taking notice 
of trifles, and remembering a multitude of unmeaning 
thinss, while it is unconscious of the affliction which 
is ready to press again upon it. His eyes wandered 
vacantly over the naked walls, till they at last rested 
on the discoloured places where the pictures had 
hung. He was not sensible at first at what he was 
looking; but his mind was by degrees moved, and he 
was presently brought ag^ain to the recollection of his 
condition. If the earth had been swept of every liv- 
ing thing but himself, the sense of desertion could 
not have weighed heavier upon him. He passed on 
to his chamber; the wind moaned in the ^chimneys; 
and as he trod over the bare floors, the empty house 
was filled with the sharp echoes of his steps, which 
seemed to chatter and mock at him. 



260 EDWARD AND MARY. 

The next morning he began his journey. The 
violence of the storm was over, but it was a dull, driz- 
zly day. He passed it in silence, busy with his melan- 
choly thoughts. He took little notice of what was 
about him. The home of Mary Aston, as he had 
seen it in storm and sunshine, was in his mind. He 
thought of her deep love for him, her serious and un- 
changing mind, her frank and confiding looks and 
manner towards him. He would have laid down his 
life to give her that peace which was hers before 
she knew him, — he would have done more — he 
would have dragged on a life of misery. 

Jacob spoke the first word that was uttered. — '^ We 
are half through our journey. Sir. I know it by the 
wood just ahead of us.'' — Edward looked out upon 
the wood, by way of answer to Jacob. It was now 
autumn, and the leaves in all their gaudy and varied 
colours, hung dripping and flagging in the damp air. 
It seemed a cruel taunt upon the gay hopes and forced 
mirth of the world. Edward shut his eyes upon the 
sight, heart-sick. There was none of the spirit of 
scorn in him; he felt it rather as an emblem of his 
own withered joys. The day dragged on heavily; 
and he reached his new home about dark, tired in 
body and mind. 

One who had seen him when he met the family, 
would have known little of what his inward suflTer- 
ings were. Beside his aversion to discovering his 
deeper feelings, even to his own family, he was con- 
scious of the duty upon him to strengthen the forti- 
tude of his parents. His endeavours were of little 
benefit to his father. Mr. Shirley was of a high, rest- 
less spirit; and his sudden fall from wealth and dis- 
tinction and the stir of society, heated his warm tem- 



EDWARD AND MARY. 261 

perament, and he died of a violent fever, after a few 
months' illness Edward was as a nurse to his father 
through his sickness; and after Mr. Shirley's death, 
was as kind and attentive to his mother, and as anx- 
ious about every little thing which he thought would 
turn away her mind from her afflictions, as if his spirit 
had been free of all trouble, except as it concerned her. 
Harriet spoke of it in a letter, in answer to one she 
had received from Mary, not long after Mr. Shirley's 
death. — '*My mother feels his kindness deeply. 
She cannot speak of it to me, without shedding tears. 
He is soon to leave us. I do not know how my 
mother will bear his departure. Something, all the 
while, is making him secretly miserable. I can only 
conjecture what has taken place, for your letter reveals 
nothing, and his is so sacred a melancholy, that I 
dare not break in upon it." 

These exertions were for Edward's good. For 
sensitive minds are prone to a melancholy, which may 
in the end weaken the intellect, unless they have 
some object to engage them, and give action to the 
affections. 

The winter was gloomy and cold, the spring open- 
ed late, and the weather continued raw and uncom- 
fortable, and there appeared to be a sympathizing de- 
jection throughout every thing in nature. The time 
came for Edward's departure, and he prepared to 
leave home. Though he had sustained so hard a 
struggle in parting with Mary, it was not because he 
thought, for a moment, of sitting down in hopeless 
inaction; but his father's sickness and death had pre- 
vented his putting his plans in immediate execution. 

In the midst of this dreariness and dejection, a re- 
lation of Mrs. Shirley's returned from abroad, after 



262 EDWARD AND MARY. 

an absence of several years. This gentleman's name 
was Pennington. Though much older than Edward's 
father, they were many years fast friends. Unfor- 
tunately, some trifling controversy took place be- 
tween them; and both having a little too much pride, 
and enough of the punctilious character which was 
so marked in the old-fashioned gentry, a hasty alter- 
cation ended in a lasting separation ; for neither of 1 hem 
could think of making advances toward a reconcilia- 
tion. Though this was a cause of mutual uneasiness, 
and each in a short time felt as strong a regard and 
attachment to the other as ever, Mr. Pennington 
went abroad on some commercial speculations, with- 
out their bidding each other farewell. Edward's 
father was too proud to suffer his old friend to be 
made acquainted with his difficulties. He could not 
bear to think of the obligation which he knew he 
should be laid under, were his circumstances made 
known to the kind-hearted Mr. Pennington. — ''It 
was my hasty temper," said Mr. Shirley to his son, 
a little before his death, ''which made the breach 
between us. I have stood out foolishly against a 
reconciliation; and repentance comes too late." 

Mr. Pennington was much affected on his arrival 
in the country, at hearing of Mr. Shirley's loss of 
property, and death. He wrote immediately to Mrs. 
Shirley, and spoke in the most delicate manner of the 
regret and self-reproach he felt in having suffered 
any criminal pride on his part, to separate him from a 
man for whom he had always had so great esteem and 
friendship. He expressed the earnest wish that he 
might be allowed to visit the family, and to atone for 
the past, so far as was now left to him, by every mark 
of kindness and regard which he could pay. 



EDWARD AND MARY. 263 

He arrived in a few days, and was received as one 
of his character deserved to be. Edward and Harriet 
were delighted with him. Though a man of deep 
feelings, he had an energetic and clear mind; and at 
the same time that he was not forgetful, or careless 
of the loss of friends, or the sufferings of others, he 
was possessed of that practical philosophy, which by 
a constant aim at the improvement and happiness of 
those about us, begets healthful activity of mind, and 
an habitual cheerfulness of the spirits. Although he 
had been so long abroad, he had lost nothing of his 
former character; and his snuff-coloured, broad-skirted 
coat, waistcoat-flaps, and ample silver shoe-buckles, 
and long, golden-headed cane, showed him as little 
changed in dress. His address had the courtly for- 
mality of the old school — not a mere cumbersome 
ceremony, because it was made up of so delicate and 
respectful regards to others' feelings, that with all its 
manner, it seemed a simple effluence of the heart. 
He was altogether an excellent sample of an old-fash- 
ioned, thorough-bred gentleman. 

As far advanced in life as he was, he had not lost 
his interest and sympathy in the feelings of the young; 
and the uncommon cast of Edward 's character, the 
beautiful propriety of his manner, and the deference 
which he showed to age, won so immediately upon 
the old man's heart, that upon hearing from Mrs. 
Shirley that her son was about leaving home to try his 
fortune, he cried out, — '' What ! my friend's son turn 
adventurer, and I sitting at home at my ease, with 
nothing but my wealth to plague me ! No ! that must 
never be. If he loves the girl, he shall have her, and 
that without ever setting foot a ship-board; for they 
tell me she is worthy of him ; and that is saying enough 



264 EDWARD AND MARY. 

for any girl, God bless her." — Having made up his 
mind, and with his heart full of the matter, with that 
alacrity which belongs to a vigorous old man, he left 
the room immediately for the purpose of falling in with 
Edward. 

They met at the outer door. 

'' You are going to walk,'' said Mr. Pennington. 
" You are rather a grave and silent companion, but 
as I am a talkative old gentleman, and like to be 
listened to, it is so much the better. Will you allow 
me to join you? '^ 

** If you think me worthy being a listener, sir, it 
will give me great pleasure." 

After walking a little way into a wood back of the 
house, Mr. Pennington began speaking of his large 
fortune, and his great success in the management of 
it abroad. " I have done with business, Mr. Shirley, 
and am growing so old and lazy, that half my fortune, 
I am afraid, will only be a trouble to me. I have 
been impertinent enough to seek out from your mother 
and sister the cause of your low spirits. I depend 
upon your forgiveness, by telling you I have that 
will cure you." — Edward coloured, and was about 
speaking. — *' Stop," said Mr. Pennington, **you 
forget your part, — you are the listener. It is I must 
do all the talking. I have taken it into my head to do 
the very thing your father would have done for a child 
of mine, had our situations been reversed: I'm going 
to make you my principal heir. But as I am growing 
old, and might in some fond moment fall in love with 
my house-keeper, to make you sure, I have deter- 
mined to settle an annuity upon you this very day. — 
Hold your peace, sir; I am not done yet. — The 
principal creditor took the mansion-house and furni- 



EDWARD AND MARY. 265 

ture. He has been bought out at a good bargain, and 
quitted yesterday. So every thing is standing just as 
it did in better days. I intended that your mother 
should have gone back to the mansion; but as she has 
determined to occupy the small house near it, you 
have nothing to do but to start ofFin the morning, and 
take possession of the homestead. I give you joy of 
such a fine girl as they say Miss Aston is. There 's 
my hand, Mr. Shirley." — Edward pressed it, and his 
eyes filled with tears. — '^ Come, come," said the old 
gentleman, forcing a laugh; '' 't is altogether a melan- 
choly affair, I know ; but then, we will try to drown it 
in a glass of wine after dinner. The dense is in it, if 
I don't make you drink with me for once." 

He turned off suddenly down a straggling foot-path, 
and left Edward so surprised, that he scarcely knew 
whether it was joy or sorrow that so confounded his 
senses. 

-'Your brother is certainly dumbfounded," said 
Mr. Pennington, after dinner. '^ You and I, Harriet, 
have had all the talking thrown upon us, as usual." 

'^ Harriet is a good girl," said Edward, *' and has 
done her duty, as she always does, in like cases." 

'^ You must excuse my brother, Mr. Pennington. 
He is melancholy at the thought of leaving us. Cheer 
up, Edward; you sha'n't long be left all alone. We 
shall be after you in a few days, to take possession of 
our new habitation. Pray tell me, are you and Jacob 
to occupy the big house together, (like the Master of 
Ravenswood and old Caleb,) with Peggy for house- 
keeper.^ By the by, Edward," (tapping his shoulder, 
as she ran by him out of the room,) '' and before you 
swallow that wine, glass and all, if you chance to see 
Miss Aston, give her my love, and tell her we are 



^66 EDWARD AND MARY. 

coming, and hope to make good neighbours once 
more. 

'^A madcap, that girl," said Mr. Pennington. 
*' Come, Mr. Shirley, one glass to your to-morrow's 
journey, and I am done." 

At night Edward bade his mother good by, and 
prepared for his morning's journey with feelings so 
tumultuous that they were almost painful to him. He 
was stirring with the birds, and faithful Jacob being 
punctually at the door, he sprang lightly into the car- 
riage. 

It was a fine morning, after a shower, the sky of a 
clear deep blue, and the piled clouds tinged in the sun. 
The rain-drops were falling from the trees, like pearl, 
and the blossoms sailing gently down, and scattering 
themselves like snow-flakes over the grass. The air 
was breezy and fresh, filling the frame with sensations 
of delight; and the brooks ran shining on, prattling 
like young living things noisy with joy. But an im- 
age more beautiful, and fairer than all these, was 
before Edward's eyes. He saw it between the green 
trees, and resting upon the white clouds; its voice was 
in the clouds, and by the sides of the rocks. There 
are chosen hours, when some men have a conscious- 
ness of more life than falls to others in a multitude of 
years. Edward's fine steeds swept quickly round the 
turnings of the road; there was a swift and constant 
changing of objects going on; every thing upon the 
earth seemed in action, and he felt as if there was a 
spirit of motion within him, bearing him forward. 

Long before sunset, they began to enter upon the 
scenery familiar to them. They soon came in sight 
of the house. It was no longer gloomy and deserted, 
the doors locked, and shutters barred; but the win- 



EDWARD AND MARY^ 267 

dows were thrown up, and doors wide open, as if it 
were a holy-day; and the tenants, and the domestics 
who had remained in the neighbourhood, could be 
seen pointing out to each other the carriage, as it 
wound up the road. In a few minutes Edward sprang 
out into the midst of them ; and there were more glad 
faces about him, than, a week before, he could have 
believed were contained in the whole world. So does 
our state change our notions of things. 

When wishing joy, and ' how do ye do,' were over, 
old Jacob was in the full tide of narrative, making short 
stops now and then, — which served as reliefs to his 
story, — to answer the little by-questions thrown in by 
some impatient auditor. As soon as Edward could 
leave those who had come together at the house, 
without its putting a check upon their merriment, 
he stole away, that he might be prepared to visit 
Mary. 

Soon after the rich Mr. Pennington's return, there 
had been rumours afloat that he had bought the old 
estate — then others of a visit to Mrs. Shirley; and 
when the occupant moved out, two days before Ed- 
ward's arrival, the story was rife, though all matter of 
guess, that Mr. Pennington had restored the estate 
to the family. These and other rumours reached 
Mrs.. Aston's. Mary began to think it not impossible 
that some of them might be partially true ; then her 
hopes grew stronger, and with them her fears. For 
if accounts were true, why had she not heard from 
Edward? She never for a moment doubted his affec- 
tion. 

As she was sitting at the window, and looking 
toward the road, she heard two men, who were 
passing down the lane which led by the house, say 



268 EDWARD AND MARY. 

something about old Jacob, and young Mr. Shirley's 
carriage. — ^^' He is come then! " said she aloud, as 
she sprang from her seat and ran to the door, as if to 
meet him. — '^ Who is come? " asked her mother. — , 
Mary had forgotten at the instant that her mother was j 
in the room. — '' No one," she answered, in a sunken 
voice; and hurrying into the opposite room, shut the 
door. Mrs. Aston withdrew to her chamber. As ] 
Mary walked the room, the fluctuation of doubt and 
hope was torture to her. After a time she grew more 
composed; a light seemed to break in upon her, and 
hope became almost certainty. 

It was about the same hour, and the evening much 
the same with that when Edward met Mary the first 
time. He remembered it, as he walked towards the 
house; and delightful recollections, mingling with his 
expectations, heightened them, and made them more 
real. Mary caught a glimpse of him through the 
trees, at the instant he saw her at the window. They 
both started back. He then hurried eagerly forward; 
but she was gone. He entered the house, and open- 
ing the door of the room suddenly, Mary stood before 
him motionless and pale. — '* Mary! " he cried. — The M\ 
blood rushed to her cheeks at the sound; she started ■ 
forward, and threw herself into his arms. There was 
a perfect stillness. He felt her heart beat as he held 
her to him. Nature at last gave way; she sobbed 
out aloud, and in a voice broken with a wild laugh, 
she cried — *' Is it Edward.^ And is it true I am his? 
And are we no more to part? " — *' You are, indeed, 
mine, now, Mary — look at me, and make it real to 
me." — She raised her head, her hands resting on his 
shoulders; her eyes swam with tears, but a bright joy 
broke through them, which came from the very soul, 



I 



EDWARD AND MARY. 269 

and her face was all tremulous with the intenseness 
of love. Edward kissed away the tear on her lid; 
and as he gazed upon her face, and fondly parted back 
the hair from her fine forehead, tears started in his 
eyes, answering to hers. It was a moment too full of 
feeling, for words. 

When they grew more calm, and Mary sat by him 
with her hand in his, he told her hastily what his good 
old relation had done for them. Mary breathed out 
a blessing upon him. Then turning, and looking up 
in Edward's face — '' To remember," said she, *'how 
haggard and strange you seemed when we parted^ 
and now to see you look upon me so fond and happy — 
O, it makes me forget myself, in my joy for what you 
feel." 

In talking of the past and giving utterance to the 
present fulness of feeling, they forgot that the night 
was wearing away, — '^ It is time for you to go," said 
Mary, at last. — *' I know it, the thought that we are 
to meet to-morrow makes me, I could almost say, more 
than Avilling to part now." 

As they separated halfway down the walk, it was 
the happiest good night they had ever bid each other. 

Life now was one deep and wide joy to them; all 
things that grew looked like sharers in a common 
delight, and a cheerful and sympathizing benevolence 
made the world appear as if there were nothing but 
gladness and good will amongst men. Their souls 
seemed from day to day to become closer united, and 
to be fast making, as it were, but one being. — It was 
not long before Mary became the wife of Edward. 



I 



» 



PAUL FELTON. 



— ; the sick, 
in my mind, are covetous of more disease. 



YoUNGi. 



From his intellect. 

And from the stillness of abstracted thought. 

He asked repose. Wordsworth. 

And fears, and fancies, thick upon me came ; 

Dim sadness, and blind thoughts I knew not nor could name. 

Same. 
Who thinks, and feels, 
And recognises ever and anon 
The breeze of Nature stirring in his soul, 
Why need such man go desperately astray. 
And nurse " the dreadful appetite of death ? " Same. 

Do not torment me ! Shakspeare. 

Pray, and beware the foul fiend. Same. 



Paul Felton was the son of a well educated 
country gentleman of moderate fortune, who, having 
lost his wife early in life, took upon himself the educa- 
tion of his son and daughter, as a relief to his melan- 
choly, and that he might not be deprived of their 
society. 

The retired life which the father led, prevented the 
son's forming many acquaintances, and checked those 
open, communicative feelings which make schoolboys 
so pleasing. The serious and reserved manners 



272 PAUL FELTON. 

which the father had fallen into, rather from his loss, 
than from any thing native in his disposition, made an 
early impression on the son; and from childhood Paul 
was retired, silent and thoughtful. His character was 
of a strong cast; and not being left to its free play 
among equals, it worked with a violence increased by 
its pent up and secret action. 

The people of the neighbourhood were illiterate 
and uncouth, having for the most part, that rough and 
bold bearing which comes from an union of ignorance 
and independence. Paul's distant manner appeared 
to them like an assumption of superiority ; and on all 
occasions which offered, they were careful to show 
their dislike of it. This not only increased his reserve, 
but gave to his mind a habit of looking on strangers 
as in some sort enemies ; and when passing any one 
who was not a familiar, he felt as if there were some- 
thing like mutual hostility between them. With all 
this he had good affections; and when looking out 
from his solitude, upon the easy and mingling cheerful- 
ness of some, and the strong attachments which here 
and there bound others fast together, he saw how 
beautiful was that which was companionable and kind 
in the heart of man, and his eye rested on it, and his 
soul longed after it. 

So evil, however, is the nature of men, that almost 
the love of what is excellent may lead us astray, if 
we do not take heed to the way in which we seek it ; 
and we may see, and understand, and wish for it, till 
we come to envy it in another: we may gaze upon a 
character that is fair, and elevated, and happy, till we 
feel its very goodness stirring in us dislike. Paul had 
no settled ill-will towards any one; though, perhaps, 
there was mingled with his repining, somewhat of envy 
at the happiness and ease of mind in others. 



PAUL FELTON. '213 

As he advanced in life his passions waxed stronger, 
and he craved an object about which they might live 
and grow. His retired habits, however, had left him 
without any of that careless confidence which in so 
wonderful a manner helps along the men of the world; 
and with a consciousness of his own powers, he was 
distrustful of his ability to make them known, and of 
the estimate which others would put upon them. This 
same distrust ran into all his feelings; and with a 
character to love earnestly and tenderly, the fear that 
his personal appearance and somewhat awkward man- 
ners deprived him of the power of showing what his 
heart was susceptible of, made him almost miserable 
at the thought that such feelings were ever given to 
him. — '^ When I am tired of solitude,^' he would say, 
^^ and my heart aches with the void I feel, shall that 
which I am conscious of within me as beautiful and 
true, be made scoff of by another, because I have not 
the fair form and manner of other men, and my tongue 
cannot so well tell what is within me? — Shall all that 
is sincere in me be questioned, or looked on with in- 
difference? " So far had even his good affections be- 
come a torment to him, that all was at war and in op- 
position in his character. At one time he was busy 
in scornful speculation and doubt upon his passions; 
and at another, he would urge them on, and give them 
rein, that he might feel the self-torture they would 
bring. No one thing was left to its natural play — as 
making a part of his daily life — but existed in excess, 
or not at all. This change and opposition broke up 
that settled state in which the sense of truth puts us, 
and left him disturbed; till at last his mind seemed 
given for little else, but to speculate upon his feel- 
ings, to part or unite them, to quell or inflame them, 
18 



274 PAUL FELTQN. 

He who so far questions his own nature, will ques- 
tion every thing ; and bring the most pain and misery 
on those who are dearest to him; because he is for 
ever asking for an assurance of returned affections^ 
and seeking that assurance in the power he can exert 
over the object he loves. He inflicts his tortures, and 
still doubts; and goes on to the end, working his own 
misery, and seeing the object of which he is most fond, 
perishing, like himself, the victim of his diseased 
cravings. 

Paul was nearly alone in the world. His father 
was for the most par1*lost in his own thoughts. His 
sister, though lively and talkative, had neither depth 
of feeling, nor strength of intellect enough for him. 
Much action and sound to little purpose wore on 
his spirit, and though he was not without affection 
for her, a sneer would sometimes escape him in his 
impatience. He would shut himself up in his cham- 
ber, or without so much as a dog for a companion, 
wander off where no human being was to be met with. 

He had now lived many years a self-tormentor, and 
without communion with any one to relieve his mind, 
when Esther Waring, the daughter of his father's 
friend, came on a visit to Paul's sister. Her dispo- 
sition was cheerful and social; and she had an active, 
thoughtful mind, which drew and fixed the attention 
of those with whom she talked. Her feelings were 
quick and kind, and the tenor of her thinking and refl] 
marks showed that they were deep. Her black hair 
fell round her dark, quiet eyes, which seemed to rest 
on what the mind was showing them; and when sheMj 
spoke, a light shone through them from the very re- 
cesses of the soul, as the stars shoot up from the 
depths of the waters, brightening what they shine 



1 



PAUL FELTON. 275 

through. Her form was beautifully moulded; and 
her movements had that pliableness and delicacy which 
so touch and interest men of grave or melancholy 
natures. 

Paul would often ramble among the hills, dwelling 
upon his own thoughts, and seeking for sympathy in 
nature; but she did not always answer him; and then 
it was that he stood like a withered thing amid her 
fresh and living beauty. Sometimes he would sit 
alone on one of the peaks in the chain of the neigh- 
bouring hills, and look out on the country beneath 
him, as if imploring to be taken to a share of the joy 
which it seemed sensible to, as it lay in the sunshine. 
He would call, in the spirit, to the birds that passed 
over him, and to the stream that wound away, till lost 
in the common brightness of the day, to stay and com- 
fort him. They heard him not, but left him to cares, 
and the waste of time, and his own thoughts. 

It was after one of these melancholy days that lie 
returned home about dusk, and not having heard of 
the arrival of a stranger, entered the parlour with a 
gloomy countenance, his eyes cast down, his full black 
eyebrows bent together, and his lips moving, as if he 
were lost in talk w^ith himself Without observing^ 
that there was any one in the room, he walked directly 
to the window, and stood looking out on the evening 
sky. His powerful face and the characteristic move- 
ment of his body attracted the attention of Esther ; 
and her eyes fixed on him unconsciously as he stood 
partly turned from her. He was below the common 
height, with a person of a somewhat heavy mould, 
square, and muscular ; but he had the air and bearing of 
one of a deep, resolute and thoughtful mind — as be- 
ing one of those men, whom, if a woman loves at all, 
she loves with the devotion of a martyr. 



S76 PAUL FELTON. 

'' Paul!" said his father. — " Sir?" answered Paul, 
without turning his head. — '' Here is my old friend's 
daughter, Miss Waring." — Little used to society, 
and watchful lest others should mark his defects, his 
manner, when in company, was at all times somewhat 
embarrassed. He turned, and saw the fair face of 
Esther. It was slightly flushed; and the light which 
filled her eye and played over her countenance, broke 
upon the gloomy face of Paul, and touched the slug- 
gish spirit within him with a sensation of warmth and 
life. He made such apology for his inattention as his 
sudden introduction would allow of His manner was 
constrained, and a little awkward. It was, however, 
the constraint of that certain sensitiveness which gives 
more interest and delight than the sort of acquired, 
conventional ease and grace so common in the world. 

A country tea-table is a social affair; and Paul soon 
lost a little of his taciturnity. The presence of an 
agreeable stranger is a great restorer of the spirits 
to those who are little in the world; and the mixture 
of the playful and the serious in Esther's conversation, 
and the freshness which we feel coming from a new 
mind, kept Paul till a late hour in the parlour. His 
next day's walk was somewhat shortened, and the regu- 
lar tread of his step, as he paced his chamber, was not 
heard so long, and was often broken. It was evident 
that the settled gloom of the mind was from day to 
day breaking up, new thoughts and objects coming in, 
and that which had bound the soul like ice, melting 
and loosening and passing off. He continued his walks 
more from habit than to relieve the intenseness of his 
thoughts; and his path lay less over the heath and 
sand than usual ; and more among the grass, and trees, 
and flowers; his sense of the beautiful was becoming 



m 



PAUL FELTON. 277 

more wakeful, and tlie sternness of his nature was 
softening. 

The change went on so gradually and secretly, 
that it was a long time before he was conscious any 
was taking place. After breakfast he loitered in the 
parlour, and his evening passed quietly away in mild 
conversation with Esther. The beautiful blending of 
the thoughtful and gay in her manner and remarks 
played on him like sun and shade on the earth beneath 
a tree; and tranquillizing and gentle emotions were 
stealing into him unawares. 

Nor was it he alone whose heart was touched. 
Paul was not a man whom a woman could be long 
with, and remain indifferent to. The strength of pas- 
sion and intellect so distinctly marked in his features, 
in the movements of the face, and in every gesture — 
the deep, rich, mellow tone of his voice, with a cer- 
tain mysterious seriousness over the whole, excited 
a restless curiosity to get more into his character; 
and a woman who is at the trouble of prying into the 
constitution of a man's heart and mind, is in great 
[jdanger of falling in love with him for her pains. Es- 
ther did not make this reflection when she began; and 
so taken up was she in the pursuit, that she never 
once thought what it might end in, nor of turning 
back. 

Paul was differently educated from the run of men ; 
his father disliked the modern system, and, so, Paul's 
mind was no encyclopedia, nor book of general refer- 
ence. He read not a great deal, but with much care; 
and his reading lay back among original thinkers, and 
those who were almost supernaturally versed in the 
mysteries of the heart of man. Their clear and direct 
manner of uttering their thoughts had given a dis:^ 



278 PAUL PELTON. 

tinctness to his opinions, and a plain way of express- 
ing them; and what he had to say savoured of in- 
dividuality and reflection. He was a man precisely 
calculated to interest a woman of feeling and good 
sense, who had grown tired of the elegant and in- 
definite. 

He never thought of the material world as formed 
on purpose to be put into a crucible; nor did he 
analyzejt and talk upon it, as if he knew quite as 
much about it as He who made it. To him it was a 
grand and beautiful mystery — in his better moments, 
a holy one. It was power, and intellect, and love, 
made visible, calling out the sympathies of his being, 
and causing him to feel the living Presence through- 
out the whole. Material became intellectual beauty 
with him; he was as a part of the great universe, and 
all he looked upon, or thought on, was in some w^ay 
connected with his own mind and heart. The con- 
versation of such a man, (begin where it might), 
always tending homeward to the bosom, was not likely 
to pass from a woman like Esther, without leaving 
some thoughts which would be dear to her, to mingle 
with her own, or without raising emotions which she 
would love to cherish. 

Two minds of a musing cast will have some valued 
feelings and sentiments, which will soon make an in- 
tergrowth and become bound together. Where this 
happens in reserved minds, it goes on so secretly, and 
spreads so widely before it is found out, that when at 
last one thought or passion is touched by some little 
circumstance, or word, or look, a sympathizing feel- 
ing runs through the whole; and they who had not 
before intimated or known that they loved, find them- 
selves in full and familiar union, with one heart and 
one being. 



PAUL FELTON. 279 

Esther's visit had now continued so long, that she 
was sensible it was proper for her to return home, un- 
less urged to remain; but it so happened that she 
never thought of going, without at the same time 
thinking of Paul; and with that came a procrastinating, 
lingering spirit. There was always something hap- 
pening which was reason enough for her putting off 
the mention of the affair. She would half persuade 
herself that Paul had nothing to do with the delay ; 
but her heart would beat quicker, and then she would 
feel that she was trying to deceive herself '^ There 
is something strangely inscrutable in him. Would I 
could see into that sealed up heart." 

The hour came; but, in spite of her efforts, her 
voice was tremulous when she spoke of leaving the 
family. Paul was sitting opposite to her at the table. 
He looked up, and his eyes met hers. The colour 
came to his cheek: She blushed, and her eyes fell 
beneath his. Mr. Felton and his daughter protested 
against her going. — ^ ' I hope, " said Paul at last. — She 
looked up at him once more. He coloured deeper 
than before, and was silent. It stung him to the 
quick that any one should see the struggle of his feel- 
ings; and he left the room. 

As he traversed his chamber, his step grew quicker 
and quicker, and instead of gaining composure, his 
mind was more and more agitated. He became too 
impatient to bear it any longer, and was hurrying out 
to find relief in the open air, when he met Esther 
coming from the parlour. Ashamed to let Paul see 
her emotion, she was passing him with her face turned 
from him. — '^ The show of concern," said Paul, 
without calling her by name — Esther stopped — 
'^ the show of concern for us, in some, may seem im- 



280 PAUL FELTON. 

pertinent, and offend us more than their indifference 
or dislike. If I was too obtrusive just now, let me 
hope for your forgiveness." 

*'Mr. Felton officious! And can he think me so 
frivolous or vain a girl as not to feel any token of re- 
gard from him a cause for self-esteem?" 

*'Idid not humble myself to extort praise, Miss 
Waring; it is enough if I have not offended.'* 

'^Neither did I mean it as praise; I was not so 
weak as to think your self-approval needed my good 
opinion to support it." 

'^Do not misunderstand me," replied Paul. ^^ I 
spoke in true humility, and not in pride. Not to have 
offended you was all I dared look for." 

'' Has it ever seemed to you that any of your many 
notices were other than grateful to me? If so, my 
manner but poorly expresses what I feel. Go where 
I may, Mr. Felton, I shall remember how much my 
mind owes to you — how much the thoughts you have 
given it have done for my heart. And I hope it is 
not in my disposition to be thankless for any good I 
may receive." 

^' Had I a claim," answered Paul, '* it is not your 
gratitude I would ask for. The heart that longs for 
sympathy and finds it not, what else can touch it ? — 
Forgive me; I know not what I say. — To be remem- 
bered in kindness by you, Esther, shall be a drop to 
comfort this thirsty soul." 

*^ And can a soul large as yours, and filled with 
all things to delight another's mind, seem desolate to 
you?" 

'' Is the mind enough to itself, think you, Esther? 
Or can the imagination satisfy the cravings here, at 
the heart?" 



PAUL FELTON. 281 

^' The heart that does crave fellowship strongly, 
may surely find it, if we do not perversely, and for our 
self-torture shut it out/' 

'' Yes, but it is not every passer-by that I would 
go with. O, she must be one so excellent, so much 
above me ! And yet I would not take her, did she 
come to me in mercy only. I cannot think on 't. For 
me there is no fellow. I must go alone, alone, through 
this wide and populous earth," he said, leaving her 
suddenly. 

As he went along, his eye past swiftly from one 
object to another, seeking something to rest upon,, 
which might fix his hurrying and disordered thoughts. 
The notion had fully possessed him, that he was doomed 
to live without sympathy in the world, that the power 
was denied him to reveal to another what was in his 
heart, that his person, his manner, and all which made 
the outward man, barred him from a return of love; 
and the interest he thought Esther showed in him, 
while it came like an unlocked for joy, brought with it 
doubt, humiliation and pain. He imagined what he 
must seem to be to another, and then distrusted the 
plainness and steadiness of her nature. — '' There is 
not enough within them for their minds to dwell upon; 
there must be something outward and near to enter- 
tain their thoughts; and their fickleness makes them 
careless how poor it is, so it will but serve for the 
time. She will go back to the world, and, among 
showy and accomplished men, will smile secretly at 
herself, to think that such an one as I am ever quick- 
ened a beat of her heart. — Yet it may not be so; 
souls may hold communion hidden and mysterious as 
their natures. Can looks and movements and voice 
like hers, so blended in harmony, speak any thing but 



282 PAUL FELTON. 

truth? Would that her heart lay open like a book to 
me, that I might read it and be satisfied! " 

He had walked on through brake and over crum- 
bling moss, and was climbing up the shadowy side 
of a steep hill, when, reaching its brow, the sweep of 
the western sky opened upon him in full splendor, 
and he seemed standing on the verge of a new world, 
a world of light and glory. As he looked forward, all 
that lay between him and it sunk away, he felt him- 
self expanding with the air, and becoming, as it 
were, one of the sons of light. But the spirit that 
lifted him up for a moment, passed like a bright cloud 
from him; a weight was on his soul heavier than the 
earttf with all its hills; and reality breathed upon him 
like the air of death. As he stood on the bare hill 
alone, and saw all beneath him making a fair society, the 
trees in brotherhood: — '' Must I only," he cried, '' of 
all the works of God, be an outcast.^ " — He looked 
again upon the sky; but the quiet clouds seemed to 
him to be telling of joy and peace to each other. 
He stood with folded arms, gazing on the setting sun. 
" The whole earth mourns thy going, thou gladdener 
of all things. Thy light is poured out over it; thou 
touchest the trees and the grass and the rocks, and 
they each answer thee; thou fillest the air, and sounds 
are heard in it as if coming forth from thy very light; 
and all mingle in thee as in one common spirit of 
cheerfulness and love." — The sun was now gone. 
He set himself down upon a stone, till the visionary 
twilight and shadows were lost in the common dark- 
ness. There was the same vagueness of purpose in 
his mind as when he left home, yet there was less 
tumult of the passions ; and gentler feelings had entered 
him. As he turned to go homeward, the few stars 



PAUL FELTON. 283 

that were coming out in the east cheered his spirit; 
hope gushed up in his heart like returning life ; the 
affections were in motion; and, for a while, the sense 
that he was in fellowship with his kind thrilled through 
him with rapture. 

Esther was at the door when Paul returned. — 
''What, alone? " asked he. 

'' Yes, you have all deserted me." 

*' And can you feel deserted, Esther, who have the 
company of happy thoughts ? " 

*' All thoughts that we do not share, in time turn 
to sadness." 

'^ They do indeed, or to something worse than sad- 
ness — to discontent — almost to hate sometimes." 

'' That is a fearful sin, in the solitude of our souls 
to grow in evil." 

'' It makes us mad almost," said he, his eyes shoot- 
ing a wild light on her. His look and voice made her 
tremble. 

''Mr. Felton! what ails you? Can a heart like 
yours find no sympathy in all this world? Is there no 
being to share in its goodness with you, and give it 
ease ? " 

" And with whom shall I find rest," he asked, look- 
ing earnestly on her. — Her eagerness had carried her 
too far; she blushed deeply, and stood silent before 
him. — The struggle with himself was a severe one; 
he had never laid open one deep feeling, and how 
could he make known that of love? At last he said, 
after a pause, " Though of manners unwinning and 
reserved, and seemingly cold and hard, I have at 
times been foolish enough to think that there was one 
being who could read something of my soul, and love 
me for what she found there. Tell me, Esther, have 
I been mistaken? have I presumed too much? " 



284 PAUL FELTON. 

*^ And do you ask me so doubtingly, to reprove me 
for speaking as I did, in the suddenness of my feel- 
ings ? You cannot think that it was designed in me ? 
I did not consider, though I should have done so, that 
it was a freedom ill suiting me ; but it came from an 
earnest heart, Paul." 

'^ My words were not those of reproof O, Esther, 
they were uttered in the lowliness of a soul, which, 
though too often restless and proud, is at times hum- 
ble as a worm. It is a trial of my faith in you to be- 
lieve that you could ever love me. The world could 
hardly have persuaded me once, that a creature like 
you, made almost to be worshipped of men, could 
ever look in fondness on one like me." — He paused 
for a moment; then his manner changed suddenly. 
^^But, so much as I doubt my powers to touch 
another's heart, so much the more, so much the more 
must I have assurance of her love.'' 

'^ Why so wild, Paul? What pledge can I give 
you, that I would not give.^ " 

'' Ay, ay, but the pledge must not only be a sure 
one, it must be of a love which shall make me all in 
all. Can you," he cried, seizing her hand and wring- 
ing it hard, " can you have me in all your thoughts — 
make your whole soul mine? " — She shook, and turn- 
ed pale. She struggled to pass it off lightly; but a 
tear was in her eye, as she said, with a forced smile — 
''Why, Paul, you are beside yourself! Any body 
might think I was making myself over to the Evil One, 
and not to the man that loves me." 

ff Forgive me, forgive me, Esther," he murmured, 
putting his arm round her, and resting his hot brow on 
her shoulder, — ''I — I feel myself sometimes too 
poor a thing for mortal regard; and then, and then I 



PAUL FELTON. S85 

could crawl into the earth. O, take me to you, and 
cherish me, and tell me that I am not wholly worth- 
less — that you will love me." 

'^ Paul, Paul, this is madness. You have brooded 
all alone over your melancholy thoughts, till they 
have bewildered you. If you care for me, shall I 
not make you happy? Look up, and let a cheerful 
spirit enter you." — He lifted his head slowly from 
her shoulder, and stood gazing on her beautiful, 
tremulous countenance. — '' O, you are an angel 
come in mercy to me. My spirit will never suffer so 
more." 

*' This is too eager, Paul," said she kindly. ^' Let 
your soul have rest; and try to be of a calmer mind." 
— And he was quiet. The tossing of the soul settled 
away, and he stood with a spirit gentle as the moon- 
light which poured over them, as it came up in the 
east; — for what spirit will not a woman's kindness 
calm ? 

At last Esther's father came to take her home. 
Paul was urged by him to join them; but a certain 
over delicacy, some might call it, prevented his going 
for the first time to the house in company with the 
woman to whom he had been but a little while en- 
gaged; and so, with an embarrassed and half uttered 
apology, he said he should soon follow them. 

He had time for only a word or two at her leaving 
him; and yet he looked and spoke as if it would take 
ages to pour out what was in his soul. All the good 
affections in our nature seemed at work there — it 
was love, and pitty, and parental care, and the heart- 
sickness of parting. As he put his arm gently round 
her, and looked in her face, there was in his manner 
more of the father, who is about parting with an only 



2&6 PAUL FELTON. 

daughter for the first time, than of the lover. His 
voice was low, and thrilling, and admonitory. *' You 
are going from me, Esther, for the first time since we 
have met. A single and near object moves our affec- 
tions strangely. In a little while you will be among 
those with whom you grew up; and old sympathies of 
thought and feeling may return to you. Look care- 
fully into your heart, Esther, and think it your best 
faith to me, to abide by what that tells you." 

''And can you regard and love me, Paul, and yet 
judge me of so light and changeable a disposition?^' 

'' No, Esther; but the very intensenessoflove calls 
up misgivings; and better I were left out on the bleak 
heath yonder, than be gathered to your bosom, to be 
thrown away again." 

They parted; and though Esther loved him with a 
devoted spirit, she breathed more freely when out of 
his presence. He was dearer to her for his melan^ 
choly; and his kind and fond manner, when his ab- 
straction of mind was gone, touched her heart. Yet 
there was something fearful and ominous to her in his 
gloom; and though she knew it had been caused by 
long solitude, and a mistaken estimate of the relation 
in which he might stand to others, still it was myste- 
riously foreboding to her, and there was an indistinct 
impression on the mind that some dreadful event, con- 
nected with it, awaited her. 

As they drove from the door, he followed with his 
eyes the daintily moving steeds, and gay chariot, till 
a turn in the road shut them out from his sight. — 
'' These things belong to what we call the elegancies 
of life," said he to himself '' There is much going 
under that term which serves to break up the thought- 
fulness of the mind, and what is native and sincere in 



PAUL FELTON. 287 

the heart." — He turned away, not only melancholy, 
but dissatisfied and doubting. And now that he was 
alone again, and without the kind persuasions of Es- 
ther, his old depression and gloom were returning, 
and with them all the torture that doubting minds un- 
dergo in love. Sometimes he saw her before him 
with the distinctness almost of real presence; her 
voice and countenance beautifully touched with her 
fondness for him; and then again he remembered her 
cheerful, social spirit, and he thought himself driven 
from her mind by those who were strangers to him. 
A thousand times a day he would ask himself, *^ Is 
she thinking of me now, or is she busy amid the mil- 
lions of things which waste our time and draw to them 
our wishes and hopes, yet have nothing abiding in 
them like the nature of our souls?" 

These conjectures and sad reflections were now to 
give way to feelings immediate, active and intense; 
for Paul set off from home, and soon reached Mr. 
Waring's. 

Unless a man has met, after a long or distant sep- 
aration, the woman who loves him with all her heart, 
he never saw the soul shine out in the countenance, 
in all its glow and beauty. So thought Paul when 
they met. And as Esther looked on him, his face, 
too, was changed like the edge of a cloud by the 
shining of the sun upon it; and she felt that no joy is 
like her joy who reads such silent tokens of love re- 
turned, heart answering to heart, and thanks for the 
deep gladness she has given. 

The house of Esther's father, whither Paul had 
come, was situated but a few miles from the city, in a 
pleasant village, made up chiefly of people of wealth 
and fashion. Though Mr. Waring's fortune was not so 



288 PAUL FELTON. 

large as many of his neighbours', as he had no child 
but Esther he was able to gratify his fondness for 
company and gay life, and had made these agreeable 
to her from early habit. She loved society the better, 
also, because she made it pleasant, and not for the 
reason that those do who are as dull company to. others 
as to themselves. 

The consequence of this was, that Paul and she 
had fewer hours together, than when at his father's. 
He was shy of being near her in company ; and to 
talk with the woman to whom he was known to be en- 
gaged, before strangers, would have been martyrdom 
to him. He found that her countenance brightened 
and spirits rose high in society. Her gay laugh and 
cheerful voice were in some states of his feelings, like 
the hissing of an adder in his ear. He was pained 
and made uneasy, because he saw her taken up with 
that in which he felt himself unfitted to hold a part. 
She was giving delight and receiving it in return, and 
he could not share in it. He would stand aside and 
watch her, till he fancied that her look and tone of 
voice were the same with which she looked and talked 
with him. 

His mind was in a peculiar degree single. What- 
ever passion or thought was in him, it filled him en- 
tirely; and now that it was love, all in the world that 
held not connexion with that was as nothing to him ; 
he neither heard, nor saw, nor felt any thing that 
concerned not his love for Esther. The alacrity 
with which she entered into whatever was going on, 
was to him a want of steadiness of mind and depth of 
feeling. He understood nothing of those to whom 
the passion of love gives a gay spirit — a feeling of 
kindness and fellowship toward all the world — from 



PAUL FELTON. 289 

whom, as it grows fuller and more intense, it sends 
forth something of its bright influence over all around 
it : — In him it was a self-absorbing and lonely fire, 
flaring only through the recesses of his own soul, and 
shining alone upon his own solitary thoughts. 

*' And has God given them another constitution of 
mind also?" said he to himself one night, as he left 
the house, too restless to stay any longer. ''Have 
they no fastnesses nor places of rest to come home to ? 
Day and night are they on the wing, and never tire. 
The bird that passed over me just now, and called to 
me out of the darkness, though he make himself com- 
panion of the stars the night long, will go to his nest 
hy morning. — I would not be a thing to lay my heart 
open to the common eye. Its beatings warm me the 
more, to think that I can be in the midst of men, and 
they not count its pulses. Rather than lie out for- 
ever sunning in the day, I would be covered up in my 
grave." — Paul could not accuse Esther to himself, 
without a feeling of compunction. This did not drive 
away his doubts, but made him turn some of the im- 
patience he felt, upon her. Yet in the midst of it, 
the truth of her character would break out upon him 
in its fair simplicity, and his adoring spirit would 
look up to her as something set apart and sacred. 

Her spirits were in full flow when Paul quitted 
the room; for it gave animation and cheerfulness to 
her in all she did, when she thought him near her. 
The conversation began to flag; she turned to look 
for him, but he was gone. She remembered that a 
feeling like depression had been gradually gaining on 
her; and a superstitious thought crossed her, that she 
had been mysteriously conscious of missing something, 
she knew not what, though she had not before per- 
19 



290 PAUL FELTON. 

ceiyed that he had left the room. She grew silent; 
thefcompany gradually withdrew; the family retired 
to^rest: and she was left alone. 

fit j;was midnight, and Paul had not returned. There 
\5^asCho sound in the house. She raised the windov 
'a^'*^Jooked out. It was a black, misty night, an 
there was that intense stillness abroad, which, at sue 
a time, is felt by us as a supernatural presence, and 
makes us think of death. She scarcely breathed hz 
she listened for his footstep, and the beatings of htx 
heart struck audibly upon her ear. At last she heard 
iim as he came round the house, and the blood 
bounded through her frame. — ''Paul!" she cried, 
and her silver voice rang in the still air. Paul en- 
tered, — "Where have you been, you runaway," 
said she, springing lightly toward him, — ''to give 
me the heartach for two long hours, — and all in the 
chilly night fog, too. See," said she, running her 
fingers playfully through his straight, black hair, on 
which the dampness stood in drops -^ " these pearls 
shall all be mine, and make me a happy girl again." 

" They will not be the first that have eased a wo- 
man^s heart, Esther. Come, come, these are no 
brown curls to ring the white fingers of a fair hand." 

"I thought to cheer you; I am sorry it offends 
you." 

"Did I speak harshly, Esther.^ If I did, it was far 
from what I feel." 

" Not harshly, but mournfully, and as if I had given 
you cause ; and to think so is harder to bear, than 
what comes from an over hasty temper." 

" I am glad to hear you say so, for that is one of 
the many tokens whereby we find out love." 

" And are you in search of mine still? I had thought 
it had been yours long ago.*' 



PAUL FELTON. 291 

^' And I think so too, Esther; but then it can rest 
only on our belief; and upon that there will always be 
hanging some ugly shred of doubt."' 

'' O! I had believed it was a faith, not to speak pro- 
fanely — a faith that surpasseth knowledge, that it 
was in us as our consciousness, our very life. Is it 
folly in me to think so.^ " 

''No, Esther, it is your virtue. Bad as I am, I 
have moments of such blessedness. And this, this is 
one of them. It is on me now! '' he cried in a broken 
laugh. She started from him as from a deranged 
man. — *'Be not alarmed," said he, seizing her arm, 
and looking on her eagerly, *' I am not mad, not quite 
mad, though joy shoots through me sometimes like 
fire." 

'' I wish it might burn in you gently and constantly, 
Paul, for then I should see you a happy man; and I 
would die, to-night, and e'en forego all my love for 
you — if love must die with us — could I but leave 
you happy." She covered her face, and sobbed as if 
all comfort had forsaken her. 

** O, Esther, I am not worthy this; I 'm so poor a 
thing I ought not to make you unhappy even. — That 
was an evil time in which you saw me first. When 
I was alone, I went about the earth as a doomed thing; 
and now that I am connected with my kind, the curse 
that was on me singly, seems to be stretching out over 
all in communion with me. When I see you happy, 
my heart aches for you, to think how heedless you are 
of the hour that is awaiting you." 

'* And what hour have I to fear, Paul, but the hour 
of death, which is to part us?" 

** I cannot tell; only I have lived impressed from 
the time I was a boy, that it was writ I should be 



292 PAUL FELTON. 

miserable. And when I see you happy, you look to 
me like a star trailing your glory across my gloom, 
only to fall and go out in it. Better, I fear, that I 
should have lived on in darkness, than that your light 
should ever have shone on me. — O, I talk! No more 
of this now, the morning will overtake us. You look 
pale and heart-sunken. Let me not make your hour 
of rest miserable, Esther. Think this, as I hope it 
is, but the boding of midnight. To-morrow I '11 be 
as cheerful as the lightest of them. Sweet sleep com- 
fort you. And now, my love, good night." — Esther 
looked at him, melancholy, yet something cheered, 
but she could not speak as they parted. 

For several days, Paul's affectionate manner was 
not broken by any sudden starts or gloomy reserve; 
and if after a time these returned upon him, it was 
seldomer; and his disposition seemed softened and 
quieted. The day was coming that Esther was to be 
his wife; and as it drew near, he felt more surely 
how deeply rooted she was in his heart. 

There are at times, a tenderness and a delicacy about 
a serious man, the beauty of which affects us even 
more than when we see them in a woman. This is 
partly from contrast. They are in agreement with a 
woman's person and general character, and are 
habitual to her. It may be that when the man is un- 
der their influences, he has a more exquisite sense of 
them — may we say, a finer touch for them? 

Though Paul showed the greatest fondness for 
Esther, except at moments when haunted by some 
fearful passion or thought, thei-^ was now so kind a 
regard, so delicate a propriety of the affections in his 
manner toward her, that she almost thought some 
new and higher sense of his love had been given her: — 



PAUL FELTON. 293 

it moved her to tears. Paul was happy that it did; 
it made her the nearer to him. He knew that the 
tender affections have more or less of melancholy in 
them, and that his own were tinged by it. 

'' Let me fasten on these bracelets," said he, taking 
out a pair he had just purchased, '^ for there is a charm 
in their circles to bind you to me." 

''Nay, nay, Paul; no manacles, though to bind 
me to you even," she said, unclasping one of them 
and whirling it round her finger. — '' Don 't look so 
serious about it. — There, clasp it again, and you 
shall be the first to take it off, though thoit wouldst 
have me spell-bound, thou wizard man. I wish it had 
been somethinsj else, thouo-h." 

'' And what would you have had it, Esther? " 

*' This," said she, passing her hand playfully over 
his face. 

^' What, a face like mine, and ' in little,' and set 
round with gold and diamonds! And where would 
you have worn it? — Why, it would have made your 
heart beat with fear to have such a looking thing so 
near it. And to have made love to it, Esther," he 
said, half smiling, ''that 's past all faith! " 

" Then there is no truth in my love, Paul." 

"Yes, but there is; it is all truth. And yet," he 
added, as if pondering upon it, "it is very strange." 

" What is strange? " 

" That Esther should ever look on me, and after, 
love me. And yet you will vow it to-morrow, will 
you not? " 

" If you question it so, it may be better for us both 
that I should not. For when I have done it, should 
Paul doubt, he had better be in his grave than live." 

^' Nor should I deserve to see the light, nor feel 



294 PAUL FELTON. 

this blessed sun upon me. I was moody, Esther. 
Do not lay to heart what I say at such times. My 
joy was too much for me, and made me play with 
misery. Did 'st never in grief have a wild and horrid 
mirth fork like lightning by thee? I have, tha 
my eyes have blenched at it. I shall be used to 
this joy soon; and then my spirit will be as quiet be- 
fore you as that cloud yonder, which rests above us 
in the light. O, you shall be my sun and all else 
that is good and cheering to me; and when I hold 
you to me thus, to-morrow, I '11 not call you Esther, 
but my wife." 

The next day they were married, and Paul took 
Esther to their new home, not quite a mile from the 
village. The house was plain, but well proportioned; 
set down in the middle of a level grass-plat, which 
was broken only by the gravel-way winding up to the 
door, and a clump of young trees a little on one side. 
The whole was open to the sun; and about it was an 
air of perfect simplicity and quiet. All along the 
even road to the village lay a beautiful prospect; and 
there was a row of elms and sycamores, stretching 
the entire length of the route; so that, though they 
had but one near neighbour, Mr. Ridgley, they had 
quite as much company as if in the midst of the village. 

Their house terminated these pleasant views; for 
a little back of it ran a ridge of steep rocks; and be- 
yond that the country was desolate, stretching out into 
wide sand tracts, broken by patches of scant, yellow- 
ish grass; and half round the whole, swept a forest of 
low, ragged pines. The place was difficult of access, 
and appeared like a land accursed; neither the foot- 
print of man nor beast was to be seen there. It was 
one of those good-for-nothing tracts of country, which 



% 



PAUL FELTON. 295 

are sure to lead their proprietors into law-suits. A 
farmer in the neighbourhood had put a couple of men 
on it to cut down the wood; and this business he 
carried on for several years, till falling into a dispute 
with a neighbouring farmer, notice of the trespass 
reached the owner, who would not have remembered 
that the estate was his, had it not been for his tax- 
bills. A suit was instituted, the farmer at last driven 
off from what was not worth having, and the true pro- 
prietor ruined. A story was current thereabouts, that 
the land was good enough before the owner gained 
his cause; but that he was a hard man, that the 
Devil had a hand in the suit, helped him gain it, and 
then danced over the land v*^here now lay the sand, 
and singed the grass, as he went off in fire and smoke. 
The men said they did not know why they should go 
where there was nothing to be got; and a foolhardy 
boy who had once been a birds-nesting there, was 
ever afterwards looked on with suspicion, as, in some 
way or other, belonging to the Evil One. 

When Paul now looked back, and remembered 
that till a little while before the world had been bare 
of joy to him; that the soul, living without sympathy, 
had been at prey upon itself; and that a solitude, 
more dreadful than if he had stood the only living 
thing upon the earth, had surrounded him — the soli- 
tude and void which estrangement from others makes 
about us, — it was as if he had passed into another 
state of being; and a new nature and new delights 
filled him with sensations of which before he had no 
thought. He looked upon Esther, and his mind was 
one rapture. Neglected and passed by, as he had 
been, she had stopped, and spoken comfort to him, and 
taken him by the hand, and he followed her like a 



296 PAUL FELTON. 

child. *' Thou hast been my good angel to me, 
Esther, and brought me out of darkness into the 
comfortable light. The spring of my feelings was 
sealed up, but you have opened it, and it runs on now, 
taking the hues and forms of all the beautiful and 
blessed things with which God has filled this earth 
for us. My heart is fuller of joy than I well know 
how to bear — it aches to speak it to you; and yet 
its throbbings can tell you better than words can." 

This was the over contentment of a mind melan- 
choly by nature, and not knowing how to measure its 
joys when they came. The happiness of such minds 
is always in excess; then it seems strange to them; 
they question its truth; it does not belong to them; 
they fear it cannot last; they look back upon their 
melancholy as their true condition, as one which they 
are bound to by some fatality; and in their hopeless- 
ness they rush into it further than before. 

Paul's state was so opposite to what he had been 
wonted to, that it seemed to produce some indistinct- 
ness of the thoughts and senses, and he could hardly 
have a clear persuasion of the reality of his happiness. 
It partook of the visionary; and he began to fear that 
his hopes and imagination had cheated him into it. 
In his saner moments, when he could not question its 
truth, he doubted its stability; and a vague notion that 
this was to pass away, and something, he knew not 
what, to take its place, unsettled the quiet of his mind, 
and disturbed its full content. A feeling, like those 
ill forebodings which sometimes come over us and 
then go off again, was more and more gaining pos- 
session of him, bringing back his old melancholy, 
troubling his reason, and distorting what he saw. 

There is a strange infatuation in gloomy minds, 



PAUL FELTON. 297 

which makes whatever they are concerned in minis- 
ter to their melancholy; and they seek out causes of 
depression with an industry more eager and unrelaxed 
than that with which cheerful souls hunt after pleasure : 
[t is the craving of a diseased appetite, which is never 
sated. 

Paul felt his melancholy returning at intervals. At 
first, he shrunk from it with the dread that the lunatic 
flies his fits of coming madness; but at last, as dark 
thoughts began to gather round him, he no longer 
tried to scatter them; the fate that he imagined him- 
self born to was oftener in his mind, and his former 
distrust of himself; and with these came his doubts 
of others. — *' It cannot be," he said to himself, '^ that 
I was made to be loved of one so beautiful and of so 
light a heart. The gloom that shadowed me about 
was a mystery to her, and she was curious to know it. 
She saw that I was depressed and miserable, and 
that moved her heart to pity me; she found that her 
kindness touched me and made me happy, and this 
stirred an innocent pride within her, and she mistook 
it all for love. — And, fool ! fool ! so did I. Ay, and 
there was no one near to place this uncomely form by; 
and no gay, accomplished and ready mind, to play 
round the sluggish, unchanging movements of mine. 
Poor girl, she knew not me, nor herself then; but the 
knowledge will one day be revealed to her, and with 
a curse as heavy as fell on man in paradise.'' 

Though Paul passed many such hours when alone, 
and was restless and impatient in company, yet the 
thought that Esther was his wife was still a healing 
to his heart. He loved her with all that intenseness 
his nature was made to feel; and it was with a joyous 
adoration that he looked on her in his undisturbed 



298 PAUL FELTON. 

moments: He could yet feel the reality of her fond- 
ness for hhn; and he thought of it as more than an 
earthly blessing. 

It was about this time that Frank Ridgley returned 
home, after an absence of two years. He had been 
an early and ardent lover of Esther. She had a great 
regard and liking for Frank, but not a particle of lov 
for him. His case was a more hopeless one than 
he had been her aversion; for opposite passions ru 
so into each other, particularly in women, that it is 
oftentimes hard to tell which is which. Perhaps 
Frank felt the truth of this (though he was not much 
in the way of philosophizing) when Esther refused 
him, telling him, at the same time, that she had a 
great esteem for him. For the matter of that, thought 
he, though he dared not say it, you might profess 
as much to my grandmother. He was angry, and 
mortified, and in despair; and confounded, and not 
knowing what feeling he was suffering under, swore 
most solemnly that he would never survive his disap- 
pointment. — '^ That 's an unwise resolution in you, 
Frank," said Esther. '^ Only allow yourself time to 
think about it till you are a little older, and you will 
live to see the folly of it. — Forgive me, Frank; I do 
not mean to make sport of your feelings; but, for the 
life of me, I cannot help thinking how bright and 
well you will look a twelvemonth hence." 

The truth is, Frank was one of those whose feel- 
ings spend themselves on the outer man, and whose 
passions, violently as they seem moved, are but health- 
ful excitement, compared with what those feel who 
look clayey and hard when they are agitated most. 
Esther knew very well that he was sincerely and 
warmly attached to her at the time, and that, would 



n 

i 



PAUL FELTON. 299 

she consent to have him, he would make a fond hus- 
band, and wear black for her a full year after she was 
gone; but that his mind was not one of those abiding 
y^^aces in which we find decayed, gray trees, and 
young shoots, running vines, and mosses, and all those 
close and binding growths which look so lasting, 
faithful and affectionate. She pitied him as„ we do 

e who has a twino-e of the toothach — which no- 
ody dies of However bent we may be upon dying 
of crossed love, it is no easy matter; next to starving 
one's self to death, there is nothing which requires 
more resolution and perseverance. Accordingly, 
Frank returned in due time, glad to see his friends, 
with his head full of novelties, with much useful in- 
formation, and a ready, lively way of showing it. 

It was a damp, uncomfortable evening; and Paul and 
Esther were round the fire ; Paul alittle on one side, and 
partly in the shade, now and then making some short, 
serious remark, after his usual manner, with his eyes 
resting on Esther's countenance, as she sat looking 
into the fire, pondering on what he said, and the many 
things it led the mind to. Her face was all thought, 
and her features had a beautiful distinctness, as they 
appeared in strong outline against the warm fire-light 
that shone on her. At no time had love seemed to 
Paul so quiet and domestic. He thought that he had 
never before been conscious how lovely and dear to 
us humanity may be. 

There was a smart rap at the door, and in came, in 
full spirits, Frank Ridgley. Esther, who was sur- 
prised and sincerely glad to see him, showed it in her 
benevolent countenance. His manner was a little 
embarrassed; for he had not forgotten that he had 
once been in love, though now cured of it; and re- 



300 



PAUL FELTON. 



membering Esther's prophecy, he coloured, and looked 
not a little ashamed to think that she should see him 
alive and well again. Paul felt something like un- 
easiness at the expression of Esther's face, and an 
impatient doubt passed through his mind as he ob- 
served Frank's embarrassed manner. It was that old 
distrust of himself and of his power to interest another 
deeply, making him question the possibility of a sin- 
cere and enduring passion for him, which haunted 
him, and not a proneness to think lightly of another's 
virtue. Frank was a man much below Paul in force 
of character, and feeling, and intellectual power; yet 
he was his very opposite in mind and person; and 
this left Paul room to harass himself with surmises, 
and torture himself with the agony with which hum- 
bling thoughts afflict proud men. 

''Mr. Felton," said Esther, a little agitated at in- 
troducing her husband to an old friend, '' this is an 
old acquaintance of mine, Mr. Ridgley." His eye 
fastened on Esther, as if he was reading her very 
soul. He saw her agitation, but mistook the cause. 
He rose slowly from his chair, out of the dark corner 
in which he was sitting, and giving his hand deliber- 
ately to Frank, and looking downward, said gravely, 
'' Sir, I am happy to see you." — As the light struck 
upon his figure, and he took Frank's hand, Frank 
shrunk back a little, as if not altogether safe. The 
deep, and scarcely audible voice in which he spoke, 
his dark countenance, and low, muscular form, seemed 
possessed of some strange power. Frank involunta- 
rily turned toward Esther, as if in wonder that any 
thing so gentle, and fair, and cheerful as she, could 
belong to such a being. Esther trembled as she ob- 
served Paul, though she hardly knew why; and seeing 
Frank looking at her, blushed deeply, for she knew 



PAUL FELTON. 301 

what was passing in his mind. Paul glanced his eye 
swiftly over both of them, and bowing low, drew back 
into his seat. 

The room was immediately lighted, and Frank, 
ho was of too cheerful a disposition to be made long 
neasy by unpleasant thoughts, began, in full spirits, to 
Ik about old times and what he had seen since leaving 
Dme. His gayety was not of that sort which we sit 
id look at with a good natured acquiescence, and 
are pleased to see so well played off; but it was com- 
municative, driving away our troubles, and making us 
feel, for the time, as if we ourselves were of too happy 
a temperament ever to be melancholy. He was a 
man of good sense, too, and of right honest and kind 
feelings, and therefore much better fitted for the true 
purposes of travel than those who go equipped with 
every thing that can be thought of, except straight 
heads and honest hearts. His gayety and humour 
were mingled with just observations, and softened 
down by the propriety and delicacy natural to his 
character; and these, with a graceful and elegant per- 
son and handsome countenance, and a certain defer- 
ence of manner, made him a favourite wherever he 
went, particularly among the women. 

Notwithstanding the effect Paul's appearance had 
on him, he knew Esther too well to think that any 
attention he might pay her would reconcile her to a 
neglect of her husband. This might be one of her 
singularities; but it was not to be disregarded. Be- 
sides, however reserved and silent Paul might be, no 
one could sit near him, and forget who was by his 
side. Though Paul was distant and cold at first, the 
ease and propriety of Frank's remarks were not unob- 
served by him, and he was gradually led to take a 



302 PAUL FELTON. 

part in the conversation. When he did, Frank no 
longer wondered at his power over Esther; though at 
the same time, (he knew not why,) he was conscious 
of something like uneasiness and distrust on her 
account. Yet, on the whole, the evening passed off 
very well; and Esther's heart was lightened to think 
it had ended so much better than it began. 

When Frank withdrew, Paul became silent. — *^ It 
is not yet quite two years since she first saw me," 
said he to himself; '' and who can tell how many times 
since she was a child, to that hour, she has sighed as 
she thought on some other man.^" — He stirred in 
his chair. Esther looked at him; but he was buried 
in thought. — '' And is it mere chance that has fixed 
her love at last on me? Have the same hopes and 
same desires which rest on me, been breathed forth 
in silence for another, when I was unknown.^ And 
had she never seen me, might she not have looked as 
fondly on some other man, and hung on him as she 
will on me now? " — It was hateful to him to think 
on it. There is no man of sentiment who would not 
gladly be rid of such thoughts, if he could ; he practises 
upon himself to believe it was otherwise; and though 
half conscious of the self-deception, yet even from that 
little gathers some relief But Paul was made for 
self-torture; besides, he had lived a lonely man so 
long, that what he felt was not to be so shuffled off. 
He considered with himself, and considered truly, that 
there is not one woman in a thousand, who has not, at 
some time or other, imagined herself in love with 
another man than him she at last marries. It made 
him writhe with impatience. 

At last Esther said aloud, but without raising her 
eyes from a print of Moreland's, on which she was 
looking, '^ He is certainly very amiable.'^ 



PAUL FELTON. 303 

''Do you mean that swine-feeder?" asked Paul 
sarcastically, as he looked up. 

'' I was not then thinking of him or his pigs," she 
replied, smiling. 

'' You should be more definite then, my dear„ 
Fou forget that every one's thoughts do not take the 
same road with yours. Yes, he is one of the hand- 
somest men I have met with, and of a very winning 
iddress." 

" Handsome, did I say .^ " 

'' I know not that you did; yet you think him so^ 
surely ; do you not ? " 

'' Certainly I do; but I was speaking of his 
heart." 

'' O, of his heart. Of that you know more than I 
do." 

'' And well I may, Paul, for I have known Frank 
Ridgley from a boy." 

'' Very like," said Paul; then spoke of the weather, 
and soon left the room. He at this time believed 
Esther to be of a mind as open as the day, yet because 
his own person and bearing had nothing graceful or 
attractive in it, he made these properties of too much 
importance, forgetting how much less women regard 
I such things in us, than we do in them. He remem- 
bered Frank's appearance; and the idea took posses- 
sion of him, that there must have been a time when 
he had place in her youthful imagination. This 
was a poisonous thought to take root in a mind like 
his. 

The next day, as he was returning home from a 
morning walk, he saw at a distance, Frank leaving 
the house. — '' I thought as much — a lady's man, 
who plays his glove, and shows a white hand. We 



304 PAUL FELTON. 

value ourselves, and are valued, on the turn of a finger- 
nail; and what is worse, our sober, retired thoughts 
are put out o'doors, and our minds fitted up for shows 
and gala-days.^ ^ 

Frank soon came along, looking fresh as the morn- 
ing, and as he passed Paul, wished him, gayly, a 
pleasant day. Paul bowed his head slowly, and 
walked on homeward. 

^^ And what have you there? " asked Esther, going 
toward him as he entered the room. 

*' Constancy, Esther, constancy." 

'' Give it me then," said she, catching it out of his 
hand. '' Yet I'll not take it all. There, it shall be 
between, us. Stay, let me have it again, and I'll plant 
it under this window, that it may grow all together. 
And I'll water it daily." 

^' Look well to it, lest a blight take it." 

''It is not so tender that it need watching so, 
surely ? " 

'' Yes, but it is, Esther — it is often blasted." 

'' I read not so of it." 

"Then your books are a lie; do not trust them." 

'* I will not, nor myself, neither. It is yours again; 
and you shall tend it. I am too heedless and gay for 
such continual care. Come, lay by that sombre 
countenance, and fit you with a more cheerful look, 
for we are to have a splendid ball at the village. 
Frank has been here, and spoiled my morning with 
talk of figures and dresses. And I know not but that 
you would have found me in full practice, had I not 
protested against dancing at high noon. — Now, take 
me not in earnest, Paul." 

'' Would that I could tell when I might, Esther, 
My heart is ill at ease, and I cannot trifle now." 



PAUL FELTON. 305 

''And is it I, who have broken its peace?" asked 
she, as she leaned fondly on him. '' It was my hope, 
and all which made me happy, that I should be its 
place of rest and joy. I seem to you too much a 
trifler for your graver nature. I, too, was graver 
than now, before I knew you, Paul. It is the over-joy 
that you have filled my heart with, which makes me 
so prattling and wild, like a child: It is that I feel 
too much, and not too little. Yet sometimes it makes 
me thoughtful, nearly to melancholy, instead of gay. 
I wish it always did, for then I should be like you, 
and content you better. And you would never then 
cast on me that look of sorrow and reproof which you 
did just now, would you, Paul? " The tears started 
to her eyes. 

''Be like me, Esther! You little know what you 
are wishing for. Be like yourself," said he, laying 
his hand on her open brow, '' be good and be happy. 
Misery is but another name for sin, — for imperfect 
virtue. Could we cast off our frailties, man might 
walk through the afflictions, the losses, and wrongs of 
life with the calm of heaven within him, and its glory 
round about him. I have had visions of it, and they 
have changed this vile thing you lean on, to the bright 
soul and shape of angels." 

She gazed on him without breathing. His face 
was turned upward, and he seemed as if seeing into 
the world above him. His look was fixed and calm 
as the sky. He stood for a time as if rapt in holy 
converse. By and by a cloud passed, his countenance 
became dark, and his head sunk on his bosom. 
Esther could look no longer. Paul seemed sinking 
beneath her weight. She raised herself, and he 
turned, and walked slowly out of the room. She 
would have followed him^ but she could not move. 
20 



306 PAUL FELTON. 

He took a path which led through the fields back 
of his house, and wound among the steep rocks pait 
\\v;a7 upthe range of high hills, till it reached a small 
locust grove, where it ended. He began climbing i. 
ridge near him, and reaching the top of it, beheld al 
around him a scene desolate and broken as the 
ocean. It looked, for miles, as if one immense gY3,y 
rock had been heaved up and shattered by an earth- 
quake. Here and there might be seen shooting out 
of the clefts, old trees, like masts at sea. It was as 
if the sea in a storm had become suddenly fixed, 
^with all its ships upon it. The sun shone glaring 
and hot on it, but there was neither life, nor motion, 
nor sound: the spirit of Desolation had gone over 
it, and it had become the place of death. His heart 
sunk within him, and something like a superstitious 
dread entered him. He tried to rouse himself, and 
look about with a composed mind. It was in vain — 
he felt as if some dreadful, unseen power stood near 
him. He would have spoken, but he dared not in such 
a place. 

To shake this off, he began clambering over one 
ridge after another, till passing cautiously round a 
beetling rock, a sharp cry from out it shot through 
him. Every small jut and precipice sent it back with 
a Satanic taunt; and the crosvd of hollows and points 
seemed for the instant alive with thousands of fiends. 
Paul's blood ran cold; and he scarcely breathed, as he 
waited for their cry again; but all was still. Though 
his mind was of a superstitious cast, he had courage 
and fortitude; and ashamed of his weakness, he 
reached forward, and stooping down, looked into the 
cavity. He started as his eye fell on the object 
within it. ''Who and what are you?" cried he. 



PAUL FELTON. 30T 

*^ Come out, and let me see whether you are man or 
devil." And out crawled a miserable boy, looking as 
if shrunk up with fear and famine. '' Speak, and tell 
me who you are, and what you do here," said Paul. 
The poor fellow's jaws moved and quivered, but he 
did not utter a sound. His spare frame shook, and 
his knees knocked against each other, as in an ague 
fit. Paul looked at him for a moment. His loose, 
shambly frame was nearly bare to the bones, his light, 
sunburnt hair hung long and straight round his thin 
jaws, and white eyes, that shone with a delirious 
glare, as if his mind had been terror-struck. There 
was a sickly, beseeching smile about his mouth. His 
skin, between the freckles,wasaswhiteas a leper's, and 
his teeth long and yellow. He appeared like one who 
had witnessed the destruction about him, and was 
the only living thing spared, to make death seem more 
horrible. — ''Who put you here tx) starve.^" said Paul 
to him. 

''Nobody, sir." 

" Why did you come, then? '^ 

" O, I can 't help it; I must come.'' 

" Must ! And why must you? " The boy looked 
round timidly, and crouching near Paul, said, in a 
tremuloTis, low voice, his eyes glancing fearfully 
through the chasm. " 'T is He, 'tis He, that makes 
me ! " — Paul turned suddenly round and saw before 
him, for the first time, the deserted tract of pine wood 
and sand, which has been described. — "Who and 
where is he," asked Paul, impatiently, expecting to 
see some one. 

"There, there, in the wood yonder," answered 
the boy, crouching still lower, and pointing with his 
finger, whilst his hand shook as if palsied. 



308 PAUL FELTON. 

'^ I see nothing," said Paul, '^ but these pines. 
What possesses you ? Why do you shudder so ? and 
look so pale? Do you take the shadows of the tree? 
for devils?" 

*' Don 't speak of them. They ^11 be on me, if yoi 
talk of them here," whispered the boy eagerly. 
Drops of sweat stood on his brow from the agony of 
terror he was in. As Paul looked at the lad, he felt 
something like fear creeping over him. He turned 
his eyes involuntarily to the wood again. ^'If \*e 
must not talk here," said he at last, ''come along 
with me, and tell me what all this means." The 
boy rose, and followed close to Paul. 

''Is it the devil you have seen, that you shake so?" 

" You have named him, I never must," said the 
boy. " I have seen strange sights; and heard sounds 
whispered close to my ears, so full of spite, and 
so dreadful, I dared, not look round, lest I should see 
some awful face at mine. I 've thought I felt it touch 
me sometimes." 

" And what wicked thing have you done, that they 
should haunt you so?" 

" O, Sir, I was a foolhardy boy. Two years ago I 
was not afraid of any thing. IN'obody dared go into 
that wood, or even so much as over the rocks, to look 
at it, after what happened there." — "I 've heard a 
foolish story," said Paul. — " So once. Sir, the thought 
took me that I would go there a birds-nesting, and 
bring home the eggs and show to the men. And it 
would never out of my mind after, though I began 
to wish I hadn 't thought any such thing. Every 
night, when I went to bed, I would lie and say to 
myself, To-morrow is the day for me to go; and I did 
not like to be alone in the dark, and wanted some 



PAUL FELTON. 309 

one with me to touch me when I had bad dreams. 
And when I waked in the morning, I felt as if some- 
thing dreadful was coming upon me before night. 
Well, every day, I don 't know how it was, I found my- 
self near this ridge; and every time, I went farther and 
farther up it, though I grew more and more frightened. 
And when I had gone as far as I dared, I was afraid to 
wait, but would turn and make away so fast, that many 
a time I fell down some of these places, and got Tamed 
and bruised. The boys began to think something; 
and would whisper each other and look at me, and 
when they found I saw them, they would turn away. 
It grew hard for me to be one at their games, though 
once I used to be the first chosen in. I can 't tell 
how it was, but all this only made me go on; and as 
the boys kept out of the way, I began to feel as if I 
must do what I had thought of, and as if there was 
somebody, I couldn 't think who, that was to have me, 
and make me do what he pleased. So it went on. 
Sir, day after day,^' continued the lad, in a weak, timid 
tone, but comforted at finding one to tell his story to, 
'^ till at last I reached as far as the hollow where you 
just now frighted me so, when I heard you near me. 
I didn 't run off, as I used to from the other places, 
but sat down under the rock. Then I looked out, 
and saw the trees. I tried to get up and run home, 
but I could 'nt; I dared not come out and go round the 
corner of the rock. I tried to look another way, but 
my eyes seemed fastened on the trees: I couldn 't 
take 'em off. At last I thought something told me it 
was time for me to go on. I got up." 

Here poor Abel shook so, that he seized hold of 
Paul's arm to help him, Paul recoiled, as if an un- 
clew creature touched him. The boy shrunk back. 



510 PAUL FELTON. 

'^ Go on," said Paul, recovering himself. Th 
boy took comfort from the sound of another's voic( 
— ''I went a little way down the hollow. Sir, as 
drawn along. Then I came to a steep place; I pv 
my legs over to let myself down; my knees grew s- 
weak I dared not trust myself; I tried to draw thet) 
up, but the strength was all gone out of them, and, 
then, my feet were as heavy as if made of lead, 
gave a screech; and there was a yell close to me anr 
for miles round, that nigh stunned me. I can't sa] 
how, but the last thing I knew was my leaping alon| 
the rocks, while there was nothing but flames of fire 
shooting all round me. It was scarce mid-day wher 
I left home; and when I came to myself under these 
locusts, it was growing dark." 

''Rest here awhile," said Paul, looking at the boy 
as at some mysterious being, '' and tell out your 
story.'' 

Glad at being in company, the boy sat down upon 
the grass, and went on with his tale. — *'I crawled 
home as well as I could, and went to bed. When I 
was falling asleep I had the same feeling I had when 
sitting over the rock. I dared not lie in bed any 
longer; for I couldn't keep awake while there. Glad 
was I when the day broke, and I saw a neighbour 
open his door, and come out. I was not well all day; 
and I tried to think myself more ill than I was, be- 
cause I somehow thought that, then, 1 needn't go to 
the wood. But the next day He was not to be put 
off; and I went, though I cried and prayed all the 
way, that I might not be made to go. But I could 
not stop till I had got over the hill, and reached the 
sand round the wood. When I put my foot on it, all 
the joints in mo jerked as if they would not hold to- 



PAUL FELTON. 311 

gether; so that I cried out with the pain. When I 
came under the trees, there was a deep sound, and 
great shadows were all round me. My hair stood on 
end, and my eyes kept glimmering; yet I couldn't go 
back. I went on till I found a crow's nest. I climb- 
ed the tree, and took out the eggs. The old crow 
kept flying round and round me. As soon as I felt 
the eggs in my hand, and my work done, I dropped 
from the tree, and ran for the hollow. I can 't tell 
how it was, but it seemed to me I didn 't gain a foot of 
ground — it was just as if the whole wood went with 
me. Then I thought He had me his. The ground 
began to bend and the trees to move. At last I was 
nigh blind. I struck against one tree and another till 
I fell to the ground. How long I lay there I can 't 
tell; but when I came to, I was on the sand, the sun 
blazing hot upon me, and my skin scorched up. I 
was so stiff, and ached so, I could hardly stand up- 
right. I didn 't feel or think any thing after this; and 
hardly knew where I was, till somebody came and 
touched me, and asked me whether I was walking in 
my sleep; and I looked up, and found myself close 
home. 

*' The boys began to gather round me, as if I were 
something strange ; and when I looked at them, they 
would move back from me. — ' What have you been 
doing, Abel?' one of them asked me, at last. — ' No 
good, I warrant you,' answered another, who stood 
back of me. And when I turned round to speak to 
him, he drew behind the others, as if afraid I should 
harm him: — and I was too weak and frightened to hurt 
a fly. — ' See his hands; they are stained all over.' 
' And there 's a crow's egg, as I'm alive! ' said another. 
^And the crow is the Devil's bird, Tom, isn 't it ?' 




312 PAUL FELTON. 



asked a little boy. ' O, Abel, you 've been to ihi 
wood, and made yourself over to Him.' — They move 
off, one after another, every now and then turning 
round and looking at me as if I were cursed. After 
this they would not speak to me, nor come nigh me 
I heard people talking, and saw them going about, bi 
not one of them all could I speak to, or get to com 
near me; it was dreadful, being so alone! I met c 
boy that used to be with me all day long; and i 
begged him not to go off from me so, and to stop, : 
it were only for a moment. ' You played with mc- 
once,' said I; ' and won't you so much as look at me 
or ask me how I am, when I am so weak and ill, too 
He began to hang back a little, and I thought, from 
his face, that he pitied me. I could have cried for joy ; 
and was going up to him, but he turned away. I 
called out after him, telling him that I would not 
so much as touch him with my finger, or come any 
nigher to him, if he would only stop and speak 
one word to me; but he went away shaking his head, 
and muttering something, I hardly knew what, how 
that I did not belong to them, but was the Evil One's 
now. I sat down on a stone and cried, and wished 
that I was dead; for I couldn't help it, though it was 
wicked in me to do so." 

''And is there no one," asked Paul, *' who will 
notice you, or speak to you? Do you live so alone 
now? " It made his heart ache to look down upon 
the pining, forlorn creature before him. 

'' Not a soul," whined out the boy. ** My Grand- 
mother is dead now; and only the gentlefolks give me 
any thing; for they don 't seem afraid of me, though 
they look as if they didn 't like me^ and wanted me 



PAUL FELTON. 313 

gone. All I can, I get to eat iii the woods, and I beg 
out of the village. But I dare not go far, because I 
don 't know when He will want me. But I am not 
alone; He's with me day and night. As I go along 
the street in the daytime, I feel Him near me, though 
I can't see Him; and it is as if He were speaking 
to me; and yet I don 't hear any words. He makes 
me follow Him to that wood; and I have to sit the 
whole day where you found me; and I dare not com- 
plain nor move, till I feel He will let me go. I Ve 
looked at the pines, sometimes, till I have seen spirits 
moving all through them. O, 'tis an awful place: They 
breathe cold upon me when He makes me go there." 

''Poor wretch," said Paul. 

'' I 'm weak and hungry, and yet when I try to eat, 
something chokes me; I don 't love what I eat." 

'' Come along with me, and you shall have some- 
thing to nourish and warm you; for you are pale, and 
shiver, and look cold here in the very sun." 

The boy looked up at Paul, and the tears rolled 
down his cheeks, at hearing one speak so kindly to 
him. He got up, and followed meekly after, to the 
house. 

Paul seeing a servant in the yard, ordered the boy 
something to eat. The man cast his eye upon Abel, 
and then looked at Paul as if he had not understood 
him. — '* I spoke distinctly enough," said Paul. ''And 
don 't you see that the boy is nigh starved?" — The 
man gave a mysterious look at both of them, and with 
a shake of his head, as he turned away, went to do 
as he was bid. 

"What means the fellow?" said Paul to himself, 
as he entered the house. " Does he take me to be 
bound to Satan, too ? Yet there may be bonds upon 



314 PAUL FELTON. 

the soul, though we know it not; and evil spirits at 
work within us, of which we little dream. And are 
there no beings but those seen of mortal eye, or felt 
by mortal touch ? Are there not passing in and arour i 
this piece of moving mould, in which the spirit is pei i 
up, those whom it hears not? those whom it has no finer 
sense whereby to commune with? Are all the instai 
joys that come and go, we know not whence nc 
whither, but creations of the mind? Or are they not 
rather, bright and heavenly messengers, whom, whe 
this spirit is set free, it will see in all their beauty? — 
whose sweet sounds it will then drink in? — Yes, it 
is, it is so; and all around us is populous with beings 
now invisible to us as this circling air." 

So fully had such thoughts absorbed Paul's mind, 
that when, upon entering the room, he met Esther 
and her father, he started as if the sight of flesh and 
blood were new to him. At dinner he seemed but 
half conscious of what was before him; his look and 
manner w^re abstracted; and when he replied to 
any remark, his answers were abrupt and from the 
purpose. 

'' You are a good deal of a dreamer, I know," said 
Mr. Waring at last; '' but I think I never saw you 
less awake to what is homely and substantial in this 
world we live in." 

'^ They sleep, and their eyes are sealed, who do 
not look beyond it," said Paul. 

The old gentleman looked at Esther; but her eyes 
were fixed on her husband, who did not observe it, for 
his were cast downward. Her heart beat with uneasy 
sensations, and uncertain thoughts troubled her. She 
tried to command herself; and as soon as she could, 
she spoke to him in an affectionate, cheerful voice. 



PAUL FELTON. 315 

lie looked suddenly up at her with a fond gaze, as if 
a,n angel had spoken to him out of a cloud. — '^ Ah," 
aid she, *' have I called you back to earth again?" 
'* Scarce to earth/' he said, his suffused eye resting 
)n her beautiful face. — He had quite forgotten that 
my one was by, till the old gentleman spoke. The 
)lood went quick to his cheek. 

''What, so long married, and a lover yet?" cried 
VIr. Waring. '^ I thought love would have become 
d dearer sort of friendship ere this." 

''I doubt," answered Paul, glad to turn the affair 
nto a speculation, '' I doubt whether, in certain minds, 
ove ever so changes its nature. It is a part of their 
^constitution, and endures as long as they do; at least, 
I think so; though I cannot tell what old age and 
gray hairs may do toward a change. It is the only 
thing that has made me recoil from the thought of 
being old." 

''And what would you make of a pair of married 
lovers of threescore?" 

"I like not thinking of it," he said, with a fitful 
expression of pain. "I would rather part soul and 
body, than lose long cherished and dear thoughts. 
Nor do I believe they will be lost. Those who are 
made ready for a happy state hereafter, must rest their 
chief hopes and pleasures, even in their attachments 
here, on that which is fitted to live forever. The 
corruption of humanity that is now about us will drop 
off, but essentially, I trust, our feelings and joys will 
remain the same. What makes my soul's chief 
earthly happiness would be my misery, did I not be- 
lieve it eternal, like the soul itself To die, will be 
but the full opening of this same mind, with all its 
good affectionSj (which scarcely bud here,) to the 




316 PAUL FELTON. 



light and the sweet air of heaven. Is what we tread 
on here, truth? and our imaginations a lie? I would 
believe that these high and gladdening conceptions 
were not all a cheat, but that they will one day open 
in glory on our cleared and delighted vision. What 
is beautiful and true here, though it perish for a 
season, will put forth again in more perfect beauty in 
the morning light of that sun which shall never go 
down. Pardon my warmth, Sir,'' said he, suddenly 
checking himself. 

''Then," said Mr. Waring, ''you think that not 
a little of the after existence of the happy will be 
made up of the same affections that possess us here, 
purified, exalted and influenced, no doubt, you mean, 
by a constant and a fuller love, and a clearer knowl- 
edge of God." 

" Much so, Sir. The same affections, conforming 
themselves to a change of state and circumstances. 
But that love of God, hereafter, of which you speak, 
that consciousness of Him, must be the principle of 
life in them here, too, or they will live only in time, 
by and by to rot forever." 

" Has not your religion too much to do with the 
senses? '' 

" I think not. — As if sin had not set us far enough 
off from God and the spiritual, we give to all that 
relates to these an abstract character, and then put 
our faculties upon the stretch, to reach to some 
realizing apprehension of them: we make God a sort of 
universal intelligence, take for mere metaphor those 
terms in which he speaks of his affections as so like 
our own, and, then, try after a love of Him: — we des- 
troy all personation, as if it were an easier thing to 
fasten our aflTections upon an abstract principle; and 



PAUL FELTON. 317 

thus war against one of the strongest propensities of 
ir nature, — the manifestations of himself in the out- 
ard world, and the pervading character, the leading 
cts and declarations of his written Revelation: — - 
fe have not learned that the main distinction be- 
veen us, the created, and Him, the Creator, is that 
etween sin and holiness, finite and infinite; and we 
hall awake in utter amaze in the other world, to find 
lOW little we differ from God, in kind, though infinitely 
n degree: In short, shall we not awake ' in his like- 
.less?' Though God, as it were, lifts up the small 
lower at our feet, and asks us to look on it, and see 
low he cares for every little thing, and how he de- 
lights in its beauty; though he has done more than 
this, and has come very nigh to us, taking upon Him 
our own natures, yet, through the fatuity of sin, we 
persist in making him a God afar off: — We do not, 
if I may so speak, humanize our religion enough; and, 
thus, we deprive ourselves of much assured rest and 
strong heart-comfort. We have burned our idols of 
wood, and broken those of stone, and, now, worship an 
Idea. Though our God has come to us, standing be- 
tween these two extremes, it may be said of us, as 
was said, by John, of those of old, ' There standeth 
one among you whom ye know not;' and so long as 
we know not Him, we cannot know ourselves, or un- 
derstand the unity of duality in our own natures — 
the Divine-Human, — we cannot learn the meaning 
of the first words spoken concerning us in the Book 
of God — * Let us make man in our own image, after 
our likeness.' 

'^ You may perhaps. Sir, think me presumptuous, 
in reasoning about that of which we know so little; 
though, if I deceive not myself, it is a reasoning 



318 PAUL FELTON. 

which comes of a sense of humble and willing depend- 
ence, and not of self-dependent pride. But I began 
with simply saying what were my hopes and wishes, 
and what gave me here, that which seemed to me 
like a foretaste of joys hereafter, and had at times 
persuaded me, that what I felt was not a vain imagin- 
ation. I cannot so separate the natures of the mind 
and senses as some would do. There is not an 
earthly beauty I look upon that has not something 
spiritual in it to me. And when my mind is fair and 
open, and soul right, there is not a flower I see, that 
does not move my heart to feel towards it as a child 
of God. All that is, to my mind, is a type of what 
shall be; and my own being and soul seem to me as 
if linked with it to eternity. I know that to many 
this is mere folly, and that even to those of highest 
reach it is but vague; for what can we have while 
here but intimations and dim semblances of eternity ? 
Yet, to question it because he knows no more, a man 
might as well deny he has a heart; for he will find 
that growing the more a mystery, the more he studies 
it. We think of angels as having shapes and voices; 
and if the unbelieving would say that the Writ is false, 
how came the mind of man, from the beginning, to 
conceive of such things as true? Is that connected 
with our highest faith, and what seems inborn in the 
mind, a lie? " 

Paul became silent; and he was filled with happier 
and calmer emotions than he had known for a long 
time. Esther observed his tranquillity, and for a while 
she was blest with the belief that it would be lasting. 
She knew that such thoughts were not strangers to 
him; but she had seen them, before, only when they 
came and went swiftly, lifting him suddenly and wildly 



PAUL FELTON. 319 

out of horror and despair, to a rapturous height, then 
leaving him to sink deeper than ever. When his 
dark thoughts and passions seized him, they seemed 
to her more like outward powers which drove him 
whither they would, than like things springing from 
his own mind and heart. There was a mystery about 
hem that made her fear when they took him, and her 
leart bled with pity for him. 

There are souls which have hours of bright and 

loly aspirations, when they feel as if nothing of earth 

r sin could touch them more; but in the midst of 

leir clear and joyous calm they find some dark and 

trightful passion, like an ugly devil, beginning to stir 

within them. Their minds try to fly from it, but, as if 

it saw its hour, it seizes on its prey with a fanged 

hold, and there is no escape. Perhaps there are no 

minds, of the highest intellectual order, that have not 

known moments, when they would have fled from 

thoughts and sensations which they felt to be like 

visitants from hell. 

Paul's mind was of this structure; and so long and 
violently had he suffered under such influences, that 
his natural superstition, heightened by them, had 
almost persuaded him his passions were good or evil 
spirits, which had power to bless or curse him. The 
story and the appearance of poor Abel haunted him. 
He called it insanity in Abel; but he could not shake 
off the feeling that the miserable wretch was the victim 
of a demon. He began to tremble for himself; and 
when he felt his violent passions in motion, the thought 
that they were powers it was in vain to struggle 
against, almost drove him mad. 

The night for the ball at last came, and Esther's 
spirits rose as the hour drew nigh. She had left 



320 PAUL FELTON. ll| 

home but little for a long time past, and though her 
love for Paul was almost devotion, and there was a 
peculiar sentiment and delicacy in his little attentions 
to her and the fondness he showed her, yet an undefined 
awe, a dread of the happening of something fatal, 
oppressed her daily more and more; and any change 
seemed to be the lifting of a weight from the heart, to 
let it beat freely again. Her mind and senses were 
peculiarly sensitive, and exquisitely alive to enjoy- 
ment: her soul seemed to be in whatever she said anr' 
did. When Paul was happy, he dwelt on this with a 
delight that cannot be told; but when a gloom hung 
on his mind, and he saw her eloquent, impassioned 
face and earnest gestures, he remembered how de- 
ceitful and prone to sin are the best hearts, how 
soon the warmed passions may turn from good to evil, 
and he hardly dared look on what he indistinctly 
dreaded. 

Esther came bounding towards Paul with a step as 
light as if she needed only the air to tread on. 
'^ Rouse you, dreamer," said she, playfully jogging 
him, — ''we are late. Look up, and vow to me that 
I was never half so beautiful before. 

'' O, that I can vow to you from day to day; for 
you grow in beauty on me, as you grow closer and 
closer to my heart." 

'' What an angelic creature I shall seem to you at 
fifty, then ! How lucky for me that I am yours; for 
who else would praise my beauty, when I am turned 
of two score .^ " 

'' Be not too sure, Esther; my eyes may be shut 
to all beauty before that time comes. Then you may 
find others to praise it in you — if you will believe 
them." 



PAUL FELTON. 321 

*' Not of death now, Paul, not of death now! — 
Come, let us be going. We have lived here in this 
stillness so long, that the sound of pipe and tabor will 
stir my blood like a new come Greenland summer." 

''It is at a full and quick beat now, if I feel it right/' 
said he, holding her by the wrist; ''a little faster 
might do you harm." 

'' Beat it slow or fast, Paul, there 's not a drop of 
it courses through the heart, that is not warm to me 
with a love for you. — Think you I profess too much? " 

'' No, not too much." 

''Why then look you so sad upon it .^ " 

" To remember that I cannot always think so." 

' ' And why not always } Do you hold me of so un- 
stable a nature? " 

"Ask me not what I cannot answer you. It is not 
myself," he cried; "they haunt me. I cannot scape 
them. — Away, away, I'm not your prey yet!" — 
He walked the room violently, his clasped hands 
pressing down upon his head, as if his brain would 
burst with its working. His eyes were set, and his 
teeth ground against each other. He stopped, and 
his frame loosened from its tenseness. — " It's over! " 
he sighed out, spreading his arms wide, as if just set 
free. 

Esther shook with fear as she stood fixed, gazing 
at him. When the change to quiet came on, she 
went to him. — " Paul, my husband, come to me; tell 
me what terrible thoughts they are that tear you so." 

" Thoughts, call you them? Visions, shadows, 
horrible, horrible shadows! Speak not of them; call 
them not round me again. — O, Esther, I am sore af- 
flicted; — I would I might not suffer so. Pray for my 
soul's peace, Esther. It longs, it longs to rest quietly 
21 



322 PAUL FELTO.V. 

in its love for you. — Put your arms round me. 
There! there I'' 

" If they would keep you thus, I would shelter yo 
day and night. Paul, and look and think on nothin, 
but you.'' 

*' Even here I am not safe; there 's no place of re 
fuge for the hunted soul." 

^' Above, there is, Paul, if we but reach upward.'*] 
L.cc I 've striven in agony to reach it; but when the; 
wiMj these horrors, that have no name, pluck m< 
down! But, come, they 've left me now; and th 
bosom's free again.'' — He held her at arm's length 
and stood gazing at her. — '' And could dark, ter » 
ble thouorhts shake me so, before all this lic^ht and 
beauty ! ^^ly, Esther, I feel by you, like a cast out 
angel by the side of one who had stood faithful. — 
I've held you too long. Your father waits for you; 
away, and forget my madness."' 

'' Xot without you, Paul.'' 

'•' What, II ]\o, in faith! A married pair go re- 
gularly coupled at the hour set! Xo, no, I 'm not 
such a rustic as you take me for." 

'• Do not so suddenly tritle in this way, Paul; it 
grieves me more than all; it is not your disposition." 

•'•' In earnest, then, the blood heaves too violently 
through me yet; when it flows quietly I'll come to 
you." 

He pressed her hand gently, as he put her into the 
carriage, and gave her one of those smiles which al- 
ways went like sunshine to Esther's heart. — He saw 
her look back atlter him as the carriage turned down 
the road, and stretched his arms out towards her as if 
to clasp her to him. As he raised his hands upward, 
'• O. heaven," he said, '* thou hast given her to mej 



I 



PAUL FELTOX. 323 

as more than an earthly blessing; let it not prove a 
curse upon my soul!" — He felt something clasp his 
knees; and looking down, he sprang as from the coil 
of a serpent. — \yere you sent to snare me now, you 
imp of Hell? How crawled you here, and for what?'* 

'' I watched for you under this thojn,'' whined out 
poor Abel; '^ for I shall die if I cannot see you and 
speak to you. And when you prayed, I came up to 
you, to have you pray for me, that I might be spared 
going, if 'twere only for this one night. '^ 

'' I 've sins and tortures of my own enough. Pray 
for yourself, wretch." 

'' I dare not, I dare not," cried Abel, •'•'lest He 
come and torment me. O, help me. You were good 
to me once." 

^' And what mortal might can shield you an-ainst un- 
earthly powers? " 

*' I feel safer when near you, though you make me 
tremble. Zsot a soul beside will so much as hear me 
when I call after them. I 've thought that, perhaps, 
nobody but you coidd hear me any more.'' 

''And why I ? — Don 't put your lean hand on me ! " 

Abel shrunk back. The loathing that Paul felt 
turned to pity. '' Come, you are hungry, and must 
have something to strengthen you.*' Paul took the 
boy into the house; and having seen him fed, o;ave 
him an old rug to lie upon. '•' Sleep there, Abel ; you 
shall not to the wood to-night." Abel felt comforted 
and protected for the first time since the thought of 
the wood entered his head. In a few minutes he was 
in a sound sleep. 

Paul took his way along the greensward to the vil- 
lage. As he passed the bush under which Abel had 
been sitting, he involuntary moved a little aside from 



324 PAUL FELTON. 

it. — Why has that boy fastened so on me? I like it 
not. There will no good come of it. When he is 
near me, I feel him as one who is cursed, and bring- 
ing a curse. The powers of darkness put him be- 
tween me and mine; and promptings of dreadful por- 
tent are whispered in my ear." His mind grew more 
disturbed as he went forward, ruminating on these 
things; till having nearly reached the end of his walk, 
he stopped under a large tree, that he might gain 
sufficient composure and a clear brow to enter the 
room. 

Not a leaf moved, and the stars shone in silence. 
Suddenly the music burst forth from the hall: to 
Paul it was like a crash that jarred the still universe. 
'' 'Tis hateful to me; — noise, and folly, and hot, hot 
blood! Warm hands, and flushed cheeks, and high- 
beating bosoms! And she, who an hour ago would 
have sheltered Paul, and looked and thought on 
none but him! No more to her now than if he 
had never been-^or had slept a twelvemonth in his 
grave! These creatures are beautiful and fair, and 
would be innocent as flowers, did none but heaven's 
winds visit them; but the world's breath blows on 
them, and taints them. Beings all of sensations; and, 
so, love is grateful to them. But it roots not deep and 
silently as in man ; from whom to pluck it out, tears 
up heart and all. — Leave me, leave me, let me not 
think on't!" He rushed forward, as if to fly from 
the thought. 

Scarcely considering whither he was going, he was 
soon before the folding-doors of the hall. Coming 
out of the quiet and the dim light, the flare of the 
lamps, the whirl and confused motions, and the babel 
Bounds of a ball-room, breaking suddenly upon him. 



I 



PAUL FELTON. 325 

blinded and confounded him. He pressed his brow, 
to recover his senses a little, and then entered the 
room. 

One who is unused to such scenes is hardly able, 
at first, to tell his familiar acquaintances. Paul was 
in anxious search of one, as he passed round the 
room, close to the wall. He had just gone by her 
without perceiving her, when a well known laugh, 
though louder than usual, made him suddenly stop. 
As he turned, Esther sprang forward in the dance as 
if going up into the air. The bright smile of pleasure 
was on her face, as she gave Frank her hand; and 
as they bounded swiftly by Paul, without observing 
him, he saw the warm glow upon her cheek, her eyes 
turned a little upward, suffused and sparkling, her 
dark, floating curls rising, then just touching her 
snowy forehead, then lifted with the motion again, 
her bosom tinged with a delicate tint, and moving 
with a fluttering beat. *' Heaven and hell! " said he 
to himself, '* ye work side by side in this world, though 
with opposite intent," Every nerve in his body 
seemed to shoot and burn with electric fire. The 
sensation passed off, and left a weak, sick feeling; so 
that he could scarcely stand. A cold damp stood on 
his pale brow and trembling hands. He drew be- 
hind a couple of gentlemen, who were talking together 
while looking on the dance, and leaned himself against 
the wall. For a time he dared not look up; nor did 
he hear any sound till the conversation of the gentle- 
men suddenly drew his attention. 

'' What an exquisite figure, and how pliable and 
graceful," remarked one. ''Every limb is full of 
life." 

^' Yes," said the other; " and how sinuous the mo- 



326 



PAUL FELTON. 



tions! They run into each other like the swells of the 
sea. Oh, she's a very Perdita in the dance. Be- 
fore he went away Frank was an elegant looking 
fellow, and travel has improved him wonderfully. I 
would bet my head on it, that she is sighing this mo- 
ment at thinking she said him, nay, or had not waited 
to see him what he is now, that she might to-night 
unsay it again." 

^' Then she is a betrothed damsel, ha? Poor girl, 
that she should be in such haste. I warrant you, this 
dancing partnership will put thoughts into her head 
which a lover would hardly like finding there. It will 
be well for her, by and by, if she does not talk in her 
sleep." 

'' If she can't teach her tongue silence at such a 
time, it is a gone case w^ith her already, for she was 
married long ago." 

''And what gallant knight won her? He must 
keep watch and ward, for in faith I 'm half a mind to 
make off with her myself, could I bring her to it." 

'' No hard matter that, if report speaks her lord 
truly. 'Tis a sort of Vulcan and Venus match, I 
am told, and that he looks as black as if just out of a 
smithy, and is glum, and says nothing. By all ac- 
counts, they are dead opposites, both in mind and body. 
She will be on the wing all night, I vouch for it, and 
make up for the last month's caging." 

" Poor girl, I pity her. But how could she find it 
in her heart to refuse Ridgley? I should have 
thought that for a man like him, once asking would 
have been enough, any where." 

*' Why, lord, she no more meant it, than she did to 
die a maid. The blockhead might have known she 
was a coquette, as every one else did, and that she 



PAUL FELTON. 327 

was but teazing him. One, with half an eye, might 
have seen what a favourite he was with her. Why, 
she would have gone to church barefoot rather than 
not have had him. The fool took her in earnest, and 
went upon his travels, and she married to vex him. 
Silly things! Unless she wears the widow's stole, 
they may pine their hearts out now — or else the stars 
must wink at it. But come away ; I '11 look no longer, 
lest I covet my neighbour's wife."-— And off they 
moved, arm in arm, casting their eyes back upon 
Esther as they went. 

Every word they uttered entered Paul's soul. His 
brain felt tightened, like sinews, with the dreadful 
thoughts that rose in his mind ; and the misgivings 
and surmises of his doubting and gloomy soul, on 
which, till now, he scarcely dared send a glance, 
were turned to certainties; and he fastened on them, 
as if under the working of a charm. He pressed with 
his back against the wall, his eyes fixed, as if crowds 
of spectres were rising up before him; and his hair 
stood on end, as if life were in it. Those near him 
observed his strange appearance, and drew slowly 
back, looking at him and then at each other in silence, 
as in wonder and fear at what they saw. He took 
no notice of what was passing, but seemed to be gaz J 
ing on something terrible which none saw but he. 
The dancing had stopped, and a mysterious silence 
spread like a shadow over that part of the room. 
Esther spoke in a clear, gay tone to some one by her. 
The sound struck his ear; he leaped forward, his eye 
still fixed on the floor. — '*Ha! are ye there? " he 
muttered. — Presently a change seemed taking place 
in him, and he looked round, as if asking where he 
was. 



328 PAUL FELTON. 

Mr. Waring, who observed that something unusual 
had happened, went that way, and found Paul stand- 
ing alone, his eye wandering, his body trembling, 
his lips livid, and the sweat standing in big drops on 
his broad, pale forehead. Seizing Paul by the arm, 
as he called him by name, and shaking him to rouse 
him, Paul started, giving the old gentleman a look of 
amazement. — " What mean ye, what's the matter, 
that you handle me thus? Ha, ha, — I did not know 
you, old man. Your daughter's fair and honest, is 
she not ? And loves her husband truly, ah, truly, does 
she not? for she herself told him so." 

" This pent atmosphere has overcome him," cried 
Mr. Waring; ''he's unused to it." And he turned 
Paul, to lead him into the open air. Paul looked at 
him, as if to ask what he was doing, and then suffered 
himself to be led out of the room. He took, without 
seeming conscious of it, what Mr. Waring gave him; 
and they walked to an outer door. 

''This night air is cold," said Paul, shuddering. 

" Cold! " asked the old gentleman, surprised. He 
felt of Paul's hand and forehead; it was like touching 
the dead. 

"You are ill, quite ill, Mr. Felton; you must go 
home. Let me find Esther." 

"I've found her out before you, old man. — Stay," 
said he, in an eager whisper, seizing Mr. Waring by 
the arm, and looking close in his face; " the net's 
nigh set which is to catch that bird; don't searcher." 

" This will never do; you must go with me, then. 
Your state is worse than you are aware of" 

" No, in faith, it is not," said Paul bitterly. " It 
was, but I know the worst now. — Let us to the room ; 
the fit 's over, and I'm well again." 



PAUL FELTON. 329 

'' Not well, I fear," said Mr. Warring. 

'^ Yes, quite well, mind and body both," replied Paul, 
drawing himself up; '^ and I'm calm, perfectly calm." 
He turned, and leaving the old gentleman at the door, 
walked into the room as composedly as if nothing had 
happened. Those who had seen him, supposed that 
the close, hot air had oppressed his brain, and thought 
nothing more of the matter. Mr. Waring remem- 
bered his mysterious words, and was alarmed; for he 
had some little insight into the structure of Paul 's 
mind. 

Esther, who had heard nothing of what had past, 
had mingled with the crowd at a distant part of the 
room; but Paul soon discovered where she was; for 
she was carrying on a lively conversation with those 
round her. He drew near enough to hear her gay 
laugh, and the bandying of smart and pleasant sayings. 
Other thoughts and feelings filled his soul. He stood 
amid the light and rattle like some black, solid body 
that nothing penetrated. Mysterious shapes, which 
told him in part of something dreadful, were wander- 
ing through his mind with a fearful, shadow-like still- 
ness; the scene directly before him seemed set off 
at an infinite distance; and his lonely soul held its 
own musings, known to none of earth. 

''Can we love,'' said he to himself, ''and one be 
sad, and yet no secret sympathy tell the other of it? 
Were Esther cast down, though I saw her not, the 
spirits that are about us, and know what is in our 
hearts, would whisper it to me. — Idiot! boy! Talk 
I of love? Is not her heart another's? Ere I knew 
her, it was his. In mind — in mind she 's his now — 
at this instant, his." — He darted from the place he 
was in, and taking his stand just outside the circle, 



330 PAUL FELTON. 



1 



and opposite Esther, stood watching her, without 
being seen. Frank was by her side, playing with her 
fan. — ''What, so constant!" said Paul to himself. 
'' Could neither seas nor travel cure you! But I have 
that that will. Yet ye 're a faithful pair; and it would 
break two loving hearts. jSTo, no, I '11 not be cruel. — 
Why talk I of you, ye coxcomb? — What are you to 
me.^ 'Tis she! 'tis she! and I '11 see what's in that 
heart, though I tear it from her." 

*' And where is Mr. Felton to-night, that he is not 
with us?" asked one. — " O, at home, no doubt," 
answered a peevish maiden. '' ' He loves no plays, as 
thou dost, Antony, ' " said she, maliciously, looking 
first at Frank and then at Esther. Esther could not 
but observe her very significant manner; and inno- 
cent as her heart was of all improper thoughts, she 
felt pained and embarrassed. Paul watched the 
changes of her countenance. ''And is her name 
so stale already? Do they tell her to her very teeth 

that she's a ^?" — There was a short pause. 

Esther was looking beyond the circle to relieve her- 
self of the sight of those immediately about her, when 
her eyes suddenly met those of Paul, which were fixed 
on her with a deadly look. She started back with a 
shriek. There was a general alarm, and Paul pressed 
in toward her. — "What's the matter? What was 
it ?" cried they all at once. " I know not," said 
Esther, trying to recover herself a little. " 'Twas 
a — spider, a — a — I believe." 

" Ugly things, those," muttered Paul to her in an 
under tone, as he half supported her, — " that lie hid 
in corners, with meshes spread for silly flies. Beware, 
for they draw the blood, and leave their prey hanging 
for the common eye." Esther shuddered at his words. 



PAUL FELTON. 331 

as she heard his breath come hard from suppressed 
passion. She nearly sank to the floor, confounded, 
mortified and afraid. Never had Paul looked on her 
so before. She had seen hate, and revenge and tri- 
umph in his eye. Then, lest those about her should 
suppose the consciousness of detected, guilty thoughts 
had overcome her — it was more than she could bear. 
'^I'm ill. O, take me away," she cried, in an 
imploring tone. Frank came eagerly forward. *^ Not 
you, not you," she said impatiently, waving him back, 
while Paul supported her in his arms, his eyes resting 
on her pale, sorrowful countenance. 

** Where's my child?" cried her father, rushing 
forward, as Paul was bearing her to their carriage. 

'' Safe with her husband, "answered Paul, in a firm 
but gentle voice. The old gentleman looked up at 
him, and saw a tear in his large, dark eye. Taking 
out his cloak, Paul wrapt it carefully about Esther, 
and placed her in the carriage. 

'' Will you go with us, Sir ?" said Paul, respectfully. 
Mr Waring put his foot upon the step. — '' I had 
better not," thought he, and drew back. Esther ob- 
served her father's hesitation; and putting out her 
hand to him, said, with a forced smile, '' I shall be 
quite well presently. Good night. Sir." 

She sat silent, as they drove homeward. She had 
not half surmised the character of Paul's thoughts. 
It was humbling enough to her, that her husband 
should have heard such gross insinuations against her, 
and should have looked as if some impropriety or 
trifling in her conduct, had laid her open to the slants 
of the malignant. '^ He it is that was insulted," 
thought she; ''and it is I who subjected him to it, 
and left no way of revenge to his proud spirit." — 



332 PAUL FELTON. 

She looked timidly at him. He was leaning bare- 
headed out of the carriage window. There was no 
longer any anger in his countenance, but it told of 
heart-sickening melancholy, and pity for the faults of 
those we love. — '' Paul," she said; but could not go 
on. He appeared not to notice her; but after a 
while, asked — still looking on the trees playing in 
the breeze and moonshine — ^'what were you about 
saying, Esther?" 

''Nothing, nothing, only that I fear the change to 
this damp air may be dangerous to you." 

'' Never fear that; there 's a fever here," said he, 
striking his forehead rapidly with his fingers, " that 
must be cooled quickly, or 't will sear the brain up." 

'' They drove on, Paul sitting as before. — '' Have 
ye no sense of your glad motions?" said he, as he 
still looked out on the trees. '' Can ye be so inno- 
cent and look so gay, and yet feel no joy? Sure, ye 
have your delights unto you, and the morning sun 
shall take you in them fresher than when he left you. 
Blessed creations of a kind Father, ye know not sin 
nor sorrow; but man lies down and rises to them 
both." — Esther could bear this no longer. — *' My 
husband," she sobbed out, as she sunk upon his 
bosom, *' O, take me to you, and bless me with them; 
for I too am innocent, though not as pure as they 
are." — He folded her in his arms as tenderly as a 
father would a lost child returned, and she felt a tear 
drop on her forehead. 

" Yoii need rest, my love," said he, kindly, as he 
led her into the house. She turned and looked at 
him. 

'' There is no rest for me, Paul, when I have broken 
yours, though I never meant it," 



PAUL FELTON. 333 

*' The whirlwind is gone over. You see me calm, 
now." 

'* Calm and fond, but not happy, Paul. I never 
thought to live to grieve you." 

^'Our griefs are mostly of our own creation, Esther; 
and so may mine be. '' I'll call myself to count for 
them, while you go sleep. To-morrow all will be 
well. Good night.'' 

'' * Innocent, though not as pure as they are?' Said 
she not so? As yet she has sinned in mind only. — 
Body and soul not both bound over to hell yet. 
Conscience, or fear, I know not which, holds her still. 
Did she not wave him back, as if she dared not trust 
herself ? And speaks not that conceived guilt? And 
did they not twit her of it? All of them to hear it; 
and I, her husband, standing by? And when she 
saw me, O, shame ! — She confessed it all, all. — 
Down, down, ye thoughts, that rise like fiends within 
me — tempt me not — drive me not mad!" He 
rushed wildly from the room, as if pursued by 
spectres. 

As he hurried through the passage to his study, his 
foot caught in the rug on which Abel was sleeping. 
He started back, as if the powers of darkness had 
crossed him. '' Have ye snared me then? Is there 
no way left me? " Abel lay with his limbs drawn up, 
and the muscles of his face distorted, as if some sharp 
pain wrung him. Every now and then his mouth 
drew convulsively, and he uttered broken, weak cries, 
as if he dreamed some one was tormenting him. As 
Paul looked on his shrunken body and ghastly face, 
it seemed like the carcass of a wretch who had pined 
to death, and into which some imp had entered as his 
place of sin and torment. — ''Sent to make me a 



334 PAUL FELTOK. 

victim cursed and abhorred as yourself! I see it all, 
and yet you cling to me ! And I cannot shake you 
off." He raised his lamp to get a more distinct view 
of the object before him. The light flashed upon 
Abel. As he opened his eyes on Paul, he gave a 
long, shrill cry, hiding his face in his hands. — '' Not 
yet, not yet! ^' begged he, twisting himself round, till 
on his knees. '* One more day, before you take me 
with you! The deed's not done yet; I cannot go till 
that's, that's done," 

'' And has the soul's working so changed my visage 
that he does not know me? Ts my fate fresh writ 
with a mark like Cain's upon me? — Rouse you! 
Whom do you take me for?" — At the sound of Paul's 
voice, Abel curled down upon the floor. 

''I thought He had come for me," cried Abel; 
'*for They've told me He would come; and yet 
it could not be now; for they have been whis- 
pering me all night long that I must do it before I 
went." 

''It? — What?" asked Paul impetuously. *'Art 
mad?" 

^'I cannot tell you, Sir; I don't know. It is 
something dreadful, that I'm afraid to do; and yet it 
must be done. And, then, then I'm lost." 

''And quickly," said Paul; ''for you're about it, 
now, though you know it not. You're here, — with- 
in me. Dar'st look on him you're blasting? " 

"I'me gone, I'me gone!" shrieked Abel, clinging 
to Paul's feet. " Help me, save me ! " — A loath- 
ing hate entered Paul. His teeth set, and his foot 
drew up, as if he would have crushed the boy. Abel's 
hold relaxed, and he lay panting and exhausted. 
Paul watched him till his breathing became freer. — 



PAUL FELTON. 335 

'' Up, and follow me. I '11 know the worst that waits 
me.'' 

Violent passiofis and dreadful thoughts had now 
obtained so complete a mastery over Paul, that they 
came and went like powers independent of his will; 
and he felt himself as a creature lying at their mercy. 
He prayed to them to spare him, as if they had been 
beings that could enter him, and move about him, and 
torment him, as they would. They took shadowy 
forms and wild motions, becoming dimly visible to his 
mind's eye. — ^' If I'm lost," cried he, as he left the 
house, '* if ye have made me a child of hell, speak to 
me and tell me of it. If cursed deeds must be done 
of me, whip me not blind and bound to my work, but 
let me know it all, and what I am, that I may put 
my heart into the act, and share your devilish tri- . 
umph." 

Paul pressed on so fast, that Abel, with his sham- 
bling gait, could hardly keep up with him. The 
eastern horizon was shut in; and when they came in 
sight of the rocky ridge, the moon, which was just 
setting, threw its light over the multitude of its grayish 
broken points, giving to its whole length the white 
lustre of the milky-way. 

'' It seems the path of Heaven," said Paul to him- 
self, as his eye glanced over it, ''but it tends not 
thither. The whole earth's a cheat, and I ! — I'm its 
dupe. Yet, I'll be fooled no longer. — Yes; and 
they take angels' shapes. — She that looks as if made 
to be an inhabitant of the pure, holy stars, why she — 
she that looks all innocence in her sleep, — for then 
they feign too — whom and what dreams she of now.-* 
And she'll wake presently, and talk to her pillow, and 
call it soothingly by his name, and fold it in her arms, 



336' PAUL FELTON. 

as she does me, me, — and fancy it him. — Tell me, 
tell me, ye that haunt me, is it not so? Can ye not 
give me to look into her very soul, and see its secret 
workings, as ye see mine?"— Abel trembled from 
head to foot as he watched Paul's motions, and heard 
his terrific voice, without understanding what it was 
he spoke of. 

The moon was down and the sky overcast when they 
began to wind among the rocks. Though Paul's 
walks had lain of late in this direction, he was not 
enough acquainted with the passage to find his way 
through it in the dark. Abel, who had traversed it 
often in the night, alone and in terror, now took heart 
at having some one with him at such an hour, and 
offered, hesitatingly, to lead. — '* The boy winds round 
these crags with the speed and ease of a stream," 
said Paul.— '" Not so fast, Abel." 

'* Take hold of the root which shoots out over your 
head, Sir, for 'tis ticklish work getting along just 
here. — Do you feel it, Sir? " 

''I have hold," said Paul. 

'' Let yourself gently down by it, Sir. You needn 't 
be a bit afraid, for 'twill not give way; man could 'nt 
have fastened it stronger." 

This was the first time Abel had felt his power, or 
had been of consequence to any one, since the boys 
had turned him out from their games; and it gave him 
a momentary activity, and an unsettled sort of spirit, 
which he had never known since then. He had been 
shunned and abhorred; and he believed himself the 
victim of some Demoniac Power. To have another 
in this fearful bondage with him, as Paul had intimated, 
was a relief from his dreadful solitariness in his terrors 
and sufferings. — ''And he said that it was I who was 



PAUL FELTON. 337 

to work a curse on him," muttered Abel. '^ It cannot 
be, surely, that such a thing as I am can harm a man 
like him ! " — And though Abel remembered Paul's 
kindness, and that this was to seal his own doom too, 
yet it stirred the spirit of pride within him. — '^ What 
are you muttering to yourself, there, in the dark, ^' 
demanded Paul; ''or whom talk you with, you with- 
ered wretch? " — Abel shook in every joint at the 
sound of Paul's harsh voice. 

" It is so dreadfully still here," said Abel, '' I hear 
nothing but your steps behind me; and they make me 
start." — This was true; for notwithstanding his touch 
of instant pride, his terrors, and his fear of Paul, 
were as great as ever, 

''Speak louder then/' said Paul, " or hold your 
peace. I like not your muttering; it bodes no good." 

" It may bring a curse to you, worse than that on 
me, if a worse can be," said Abel to himself; " but 
who can help it ? '^ 

Day broke before they cleared the ridge ; a drizzling 
rain came on; and the wind, beginning to rise, drove 
through the crevices in the rocks, with sharp, whistling 
sounds which seemed to come from malignant spirits 
of the air. 

They had scarcely entered the wood, when the 
storm became furious; and the trees, swaying and 
beating with their branches against one another, 
seemed possessed of a supernatural madness, and 
engaged in wild conflict, as if there were life and 
passion in them; and their broken, decayed arms 
groaned like things in torment. The terror of these 
sights and sounds was too much for poor Abel; it 
nearly crazed him; and he set up a shriek that for a 
moment drowned the noise of the storm . It startled 
22 



338 PAUL FELTON. 

Paul; and when he looked at him, the boy's face was 
of a ghostly whiteness. The rain had drenched him 
to the skin; his clothes clung to his lean body, that 
shook as if it would come apart; his eyes flew wildly, 
and his teeth chattered against each other. The fears 
and torture of his mind gave something unearthly to 
his look, that madePaulstart back. ^—" Abel—- boy- — 
fiend — speak ! What has seized you? " 

'' They told me so,'' cried Abel — '^ I 've done it — 
I led the way for you — they 're coming, they 're com- 
ing — we 're lost ! '' 

'' Peace, fool," said Paul, trying to shake off the 
power he felt Abel gaining over him, '' and find us a 
shelter if you can." 

'' There 's only the hut," said Abel, ''and I would 'nt 
go into that if it rained fire." 

''And why not.? " 

" I once felt that it was for me to go, and I went 
so near as to see in at the door. And I saw something 
in the hut — it was not a man, for it flitted by the 
opening just like a shadow; and I heard two muttering 
something to one another; it wasn 't like other sounds, 
for as soon as I heard it, it made me stop my ears. I 
couldn't stay any longer, and I ran till I cleared the 
wood. — O! 'tis His biding place, when He comes to 
the wood." 

"And is it of His own building?" asked Paul, 
sarcastically. 

"No," answered Abel; " 'twas built by the two 
wood-cutters; and one of them came to a bloody end; 
and they say the other died the same night, foaming 
at the mouth like one possessed. — There it is," said he, 
almost breathless, as he crouched down, and pointed 
at the hut under the trees. ^ — " Do not go, Sir," he 



PAUL FELTON. 339 

said, catching hold of the skirts of Paul's coat, — '' I've 
never dared go nigher since.'' — '' Let loose, boy," 
cried Paul, striking Abel's hand from his coat, '^ I'll 
not be fooled with." — Abel, alarmed at being left 
alone, crawled after Paul, as far as he dared go; 
then taking hold of him once more, made a supplicating 
motion to him to stop; he was afraid to speak. Paul 
pushed on without regarding him. 

The hut stood on the edge of a sand-bank that was 
kept up by a large pine, whose roots and fibres, lying 
partly bare, looked like some giant spider that had 
half buried himself in the sand. On the right of the 
hut was a patch of broken ground, in which was still 
standing a few straggling, dried stalks of indian corn; 
and from two dead trees hung knotted pieces of broken 
line, which had formerly served for a clothes-line. 
The hut was built of half-trimmed trunks of trees laid 
on each other, crossing at the four corners, and 
running out at unequal lengths, the chinks partly filled 
in with sods and moss. The door, which lay on the 
floor, was of twisted boughs; and the roof, of the 
same, was caved in, and but partly kept out the sun 
and rain. 

As Paul drew near the entrance, he stopped, 
though the wind just then came in a heavy gust, and 
the rain fell like a flood. It was not a dread of what 
he might see within; but it seemed to him, that there 
was a spell round him, drawing him nearer and nearer 
to its centre ; and he felt the hand of some invisible 
power upon him. As he stepped into the hut, a chill 
ran over him, and his eyes shut involuntarily. Abel 
watched him eagerly; and as he saw him enter, 
tossed his arms wildly, shouting, '' Gone, gone! 
They'll have me, too — they're coming, they're 



340 PAUL FELTON. 

coming!" — and threw himself on his face, to the 
ground. 

Driven from home by his maddening passions, a 
perverse delight in self-torture had taken possession of 
Paul; and his mind so hungered for more intense 
excitement, that it craved to prove true all which its 
jealousy and superstition had imaged. He had walked 
on, lost in this fearful riot, but with no particular 
object in view, and taking only a kind of crazed joy 
in his bewildered state. Esther's love for him, which 
he at times thought, past doubt, feigned, the darkness 
of the night, and then the driving storm, with its 
confused motions and sounds, made an uproar of the 
mind which drove out all settled purpose or thought. 

The stillness of the place into which he had now 
entered, where was heard nothing but the slow, 
regular dripping of the rain from the broken roof, 
upon the hard trod floor; the lowered and distant 
sound of the storm without; the sudden change from 
the whirl and swaying of the trees, to the steady 
walls of the building, put a sudden stop to the 
violent working of his brain, and he gradually fell into 
a stupor. 

When Abel began to recover, he could scarcely 
raise himself from the ground. He looked round, 
but could see nothing of Paul. — *' They have bound 
us together,'^ said he; '* and something is drawing me 
toward him. There is no help for me; I must go 
whither he goes.** — As he was drawn nearer and 
nearer to the hut, he seemed to struggle and hang 
back, as if pushed on against his will. At last he 
reached the door-way; and clinging to its side, with a 
desperate hold, as if not to be forced in, put his 
head forward a little, casting a hasty glance into the 



PAUL FELTON. 341 

building.— *' There he is, and alive ! '* breathed out 
Abel. 

Paul's stupor was now beginning to leave him; his 
recollection was returning; and what had passed 
came back slowly and at intervals. There was 
something he had said to Esther before leaving home — - 
he could not tell what; then his gazing after her as 
she drove from the house; then something of Abel; 
and he sprang from the ground as if he felt the boy's 
touch again about his knees; then the ball-room, and 
a multitude of voices, and all talking of his wife. 
Suddenly she appeared darting by him; and Frank 
was there. Then came his agony and tortures again: 
All returned upon him as in the confusion of some 
horrible trance. Then the hut seemed to enlarge, 
and the walls to rock; and shadows of those he knew, 
and of terrible beings he had never seen before, were 
flitting round him, and mocking at him. His own 
substantial form seemed to him undergoing a change, 
and taking the shape and substance of the accursed 
ones at which he looked. As he felt the change going 
on, he tried to utter a cry, but he could not make a 
sound, nor move a limb. The ground under him 
rocked and pitched; it grew darker and darker, till 
every thing v/as visionary; and he thought himself 
surrounded by spirits, and in the mansions of the 
damned. Something like a deep, black cloud began 
to gather gradually round him. The gigantic struc- 
ture, with its tall, terrific arches, turned slowly into 
darkness, and the spirits within disappeared, one after 
another, till, as the ends of the cloud met and closed, 
he saw the last of them looking at him, with an infernal 
laugh in his undefined visage. 

Abel continued watching him in speechless agony. 



342 TAUL FELTON. 



Paul's consciousness was now leaving him; his head 
began to swim — he reeled; and as his hand swept 
down the side of the hut, while trying to save 
himself, it struck against a rusty knife that had been 
left sticking loosely between the logs. — '* Let go, 
let go!" shrieked Abel; *' there's blood on't — 'tis 
cursed, 'tis cursed." — As Paul swung round, with 
the knife in his hand, Abel sprang from the door with 
a shrill cry, and Paul sank on the floor, muttering to 
himself, '' What said They?" 

When he began to come to himself a little, he was 
still sitting on the ground, his back against the wall. 
His senses were yet confused. He thought he saw his 
wife near him and a bloody knife by his side. After 
sitting a little longer, his mind gradually grew clearer, 
and at last he felt, for the first time, that his hand held 
something. As his eye fell on it, and he saw dis- 
tinctly what it was, he leaped upright, with a savage 
yell, and dashed the knife from him, as if it had been 
an asp stinging him. He stood with his bloodshot 
eyes fastened on it, his hands spread, and his body 
shrunk up with horror. — '' Forged in Hell! And 
forme, for me!" he screamed, as he sprang forward, 
and seized it with a convulsive grasp. — -''Damned 
pledge of the league that binds us!" he cried, holding 
it up and glaring wildly on it. ''And yet a voice did 
warn me, — of what, I know not. — Which of ye put 
it in this hand? — Speak — let me look on you? — 
D'ye hear me, and will not answer? — Nay, nay, 
what needs it ? This tells me, though it speaks not. I 
know your promptings now," he said, folding his arms 
deliberately; "your work must be done; and I am 
doomed to it." 

There was an awful calmness in his voice and bear- 
ing as he stood. His mind at last rolled back upon 



1 



PAUL FELTON. 343 

the past. As the thought of Esther's love for Frank 
crossed him, he clutched the knife hard. — Then he 
heard her call out, ''Paul!" And she looked all 
truth and fondness. — ''O! hang with your arms 
about my neck thus, Esther, and I '11 never again 
doubt you. — Stand off a little. Is not my eye mur- 
derous? — Have a care; touch not this bloody hand. 
— Come to me, my wife ; I '11 not believe it ; 't is false ; 
they lie, all lie, all! O, spare me, spare me!" he 
groaned out, throwing himself down and beating the 
ground madly with his arms. '' Let her die, if ye 've 
ordained it so, but not by me, not by me! " — His 
limbs gradually relaxed, and he lay silent. The fit of 
agony had passed. He rose slowly up, putting the 
knife into his bosom. '' 'T is all in vain. I yield me 
to you; be it when you will." 

He quitted the hut. The storm had passed over; 
and as he stood with folded arms before the door-way, 
he saw the sun playing in chequered spots under the 
trees; and the myriads of silver rain-drops, falling, or 
quivering on the leaves, dazzled his sight. — '' 'T was 
your accursed power that raised the storm and whirl- 
wind, when you made a man a child of hell; your 
work is done, and now they're laid again." — He 
turned his melancholy eye upward. The clouds lay 
like snow-drifts along the air, setting off and deepen- 
ing the clear blue sky. — ''Ye bright messengers 
from another world, ye bring not glad tidings to me 
now, as once ye did; your holy influences no more 
fall on me. Ye pass me by in silence; yet once ye 
had a voice for me. Ye go to tell of hope and 
speak holy promises to the pure in heart. Sin holds 
no communion with you. Once, all this beauty had 
been deep joy to me; but now, it lies upon the eye. 



344 PAUL FELTON. 

but enters not this bosom. — No, no, another sense is 
here now, and other sights. Tormenting flames, like 
those I 'm soon to go to, shoot up, and burn me — 
burn me. And this narrow body seems a dark, deep 
cavern. And the eye turns inward, and what sees it 
there ? Spirits, uncouth things, sporting and fighting 
there. — Yes, 't is like the place ye just now took 
me to, when ye made me yours, and put upon me 
this deed of horror. — Let me do it quickly, quickly. 
Make me not walk longer in all this brightness, a 
fiend of darkness. Hide me from it, and I'll, I'll 
come to you." 

He soon grew calm again. The look of despair 
passed off, and a mysterious gloom and fixed and 
dreadful purpose seemed to settle on him. He walked 
forward. As he drew near Abel, who was sitting 
where Paul left him, the boy quaked and looked 
aghast at him, as at one who had just risen out of the 
abode of evil spirits. And well he might, for there 
was a visionary horror, mingled with desperate reso- 
luteness, in his face, which would have startled a firm 
man, who saw him then for the first time. He 
turned his dark eye slowly down on Abel, without 
speaking, and then moved on. The boy felt as if all 
strength went out of him. He got up with difiSculty, 
and followed Paul with a watchful look, and at a 
greater distance than usual. He could scarcely draw 
his breath; and when Paul's pace slackened a little, 
now and then, as he was lost in thought, Abel would 
stop, fearing to be any nearer. 

When they at length reached the top of the ridge, 
Paul stopped, and looked down upon the fields and 
houses which lay beyond it. Abel retreated a little; 
yet he dared not fly. At length Paul turned on him. 



PAUL FELTON. 345 

He shrunk back, and tried to look another way; but 
his eye seemed drawn back and fastened upon Paul's. 
He writhed, and twisted, and clasped his hands, and 
looked in Paul's face, as if imploring to be spared. 
Still he drew nearer and nearer, as if a snake's eye 
charmed him, till he stood close to Paul's side. — 
'* Think you, Abel," said Paul at last, raising his 
arm and pointing toward the houses, '' that the storm 
drove thither, or that it was up in that cursed place, 
back yonder, alone? " — To hear Paul speak once 
more was like returning life to Abel. — '' I 'm afraid," 
said he, '^ I 'm afraid, but I can 't guess; — and I shall 
never know," he added, tears trickling through his 
lashes; ''for not a soul that I should ask would ever 
tell me: — No one speaks to Abel but you. May be 
they had better not, for I might be made to harm them, 
too. — O, save me from it," he cried, falling on his 
knees before Paul. '' You fed me, and spoke to me. 
O, I would die sooner." 

'''Tis done already/' answered Paul. ''Your 
work is done, and mine is doomed to me. There 's 
no escape." Abel fell, like one dead, at Paul's 
feet. — "Poor wretch," said Paul, looking down 
upon him. "The instrument of my doom too. And 
yet I would not curse you. Twinned with me in 
misery, and bound to crime by chains that can't be 
broken, I '11 feel a fellow 's kindness for you while 
we 're here. — What 's to come beyond, I know not. — 
And is it us alone you take in our vices? Or are 
babes and innocents all, all swept into your toils, ye 
powers?" 

He stooped down, and raising Abel, set him with 
his back against a rock. The boy opened his eyes 
and looked round him, as if not knowing where he 
was. Paul spoke kindly to him; and when he had a 



346 PAUL FELTON. 

little more recovered, bade him take comfort, and 
then went back to get some water for him. He 
reached the place; and tearing some hairy moss from 
the rock the water trickled over, soaked it in one of 
the little hollows, and carried it in the palms of his 
hands. When Abel saw it, he gave an hysteric 
laugh; and seizing it, sucked it greedily through his 
long teeth. 

'^ Can you walk now, Abel? '* asked Paul at length. 

"I'm quite well again," answered he, looking up 
at Paul, as if to thank him. 

When they had reached the clump of locusts, Paul 
said to him, '^ You must leave me now. You must be 
faint for want of food; " and he gave Abel a piece of 
money. Abel looked at the money, and then at 
Paul. — '^And what good will this do me?" asked 
Abel. '' Nobody will sell to me." 

''Not sell to you, foolish boy! Why, that buys 
souls daily! Men and women sell themselves to one 
another for that, and swear before God 't is all for 
love. Did you go to them, child, tailed and clawed 
like the Devil himself, they 'd feed you for that, though 
'twould be your last hour else." — Abel seemed com- 
forted at this; and putting the money into his pocket, 
as he thanked Paul, took his way to the village. 
Paul followed the path that led home. 

When he turned a little wood, and the house ap- 
peared in sight, he stopped suddenly. A sense of 
guilt and fear checked him; and it was some time 
before he had resolution enough to go forward. — 
''What! shall I be driven from my own door like a 
beast of prey! They know me not, nor the work I 
am ordained to. Why does my very own make me 
tremble thus ? " 



PAUL FELTON. 347 

It was a warm sunshiny noon when he reached the 
house, and there was that stillness round, which, in 
the country, sometimes pervades all nature like a dif- 
fused, spiritual presence. Paul felt as if this bright- 
ness and quiet betrayed him. Every thing he passed 
by seemed to have a knowledge of him, and strange 
eyes were on him: He hardly dared look round. He 
cast his eyes up at his wife's window. The shutters 
were closed, — '' Sleeps yet!" said he. '* That is 
well! " and he entered the house with more compo- 
sure. 

He went with a cautious step to his own room, and 
locked himself in. As he passed near his glass, he 
started back. — '* Have they not only changed my 
soul,'' cried he, ^* but transformed this body, too^ 
that the world may know and shun me ? Is the deed 
writ here — here on this forehead, that men may read 
it when they look on me ? — I '11 not live on, the 
dread and mock of mortals. Now I'll do it, now, 
while she sleeps, and end it. — Then take me to you, 
fit for the hell I go to." — His eyes gleamed fire as 
he clinched the knife in his raised hand, as if about 
to give the blow. At the sight of himself again, he 
dropped the knife and covered his eyes with his hands. 
'* Take, take that vision from me, that tells me what 
I am, and shall be! O, show me not myself, cursed 
and fallen! I '11 do it; but blind me to the sense of 
what I am and must be." He had undergone too 
much to bear it longer, and sinking into a chair, his 
limbs relaxed, his eyes grew heavy, and he fell into 
a deep sleep. 

Esther waked refreshed; for Paul's affectionate 
tones and kind manner when she left him quieted her 
spirit. When she inquired for her husband, the ser- 



348 PAUL FELTON. 

vant said he saw him enter the house, and believed 
he was in his room. Esther went to the door and 
knocked gently; there was no answer. She tried to 
open it, but it was locked. She called out, " Paul!" — 
''Is the hour come.^" cried he, starting out of his 
sleep. — ** I 'm ready then; '' and putting his hand to 
his bosom, the knife was gone. — '' Where have I 
been.^ '' said he to himself, looking round, — '' Was't 
all a dream? Was there then no instrument of mur- 
der given me } And is there no deed of death on my 
hands? — She's not to die then, and I am free of 
them! '' cried he with a shout. 

'' Paul! Paul ! " called out Esther, terrified at the 
sound, '^ let me come to you." 

"Yes, yes, and you may come safely now. I'll 
not harm you; upon my life, I'll not harm you," he 
said partly to himself, and moving towards the door. 
As he advanced, his eye fell on the knife, as it lay on 
the floor. His blood ran cold, and a sick feeling 
came over him. Then sight and sense left him. 
Esther listened; but all was still. — '* He 's dead, 
he's dead! " shrieked she, trying to force the door. 
The noise brought him to himself — '* Hush! hush! " 
he whispered, as he picked up the knife with a shak- 
ing hand, and concealed it in his bosom, ''let there 
be no noise." — He stepped slowly and softly to the 
door, and opened it cautiously. He raised his finger 
in sign of silence. — '' Hush! or you '11 rouse Them. 
Do not tremble so at me. There is no danger yet; 
the hour is not come." 

Esther entered the room. As Paul took her hand, 
she felt his cold and damp. '' Paul, my husband, 
what is it? Why do you look so wild and lost? 
Rouse yourself; tell me what has happened." 



PAUL FELTON. 349 

^^ Happened? " repeated he, unconsciously. He 
stood a little while silent and abstracted. ** Did you 
ask what had happened? " — Then putting his mouth 
close to her ear, and whispering eagerly — " To hear 
it would be your last. What's seen in the spirit, 
cannot be spoken to flesh and blood." — She shud- 
dered, for there was something unearthly in his voice. 

*' Merciful Heaven!" cried she, looking upward, 
"save him, save him; let him not go mad! Do with 
me as thou wilt, but spare my husband ! '' — Her prayer 
passed through Paul's dark and troubled mind like 
the light. 

*^ Is there yet a Heavenly Power? And are there 
holy angels to guard us still? The fiends have not 
all then, and their domain fills not the whole air ! No, 
'tis not all dark; there's light beyond. See there, 
Esther," said he, seizing her arm, as he pointed 
eagerly upward; there are bright forms, dazzling 
bright, moving in it. Canst see them? " He looked 
as if more than mortal vision was given to him. The 
sense of all about him was gone, and he went on 
talking to himself, as he gazed. *' There they are, 
passing away, till swallowed up in the very bright- 
ness ! TSow they come again,, hosts, myriads, and 
with the speed of fire! — The darkness, and the evil 
ones, too, are flying — ^they are gone! Now the light 
gushes ! 'T is all, all one flood of glory round me ! 
I 'm safe, I 'm safe, Esther ! " he gasped out, as he 
fell on her neck. 

*' 0,my wretched, lost husband ! " she cried, as she 
folded her arms round him, and looked upward with 
streaming eyes; ''Is there no help for you ? Will not 
Heaven have pity on you?" Paul remained silent 
and motionless. **0, speak to me, be it but one 



350 PAUL FELTON. 

word/' said she, raising him gently. '' Look at me, 
will you not, Paul?" He did look, but it was as 
upon one he did not know. — ''Why do you glare 
upon me so ? Do you not know me, Paul ? — Esther, 
— your wife?" 

'' I think — I remember something — Yes, 'tis all 
clear now. But They have not betrayed me to you.'^ 
They 've not told you what 's to be done ? Believe 
them not, they belie me. Did I not just now tell you 
I was safe? — and, then, no harm can come to you, 
you know." 

" Harm ! Safe ! What mean you? Do not keep 
me in this ignorance. By the love you bear me, tell 
me what it is that shakes your reason so." 

'' That must not be now. I serve the powers of 
the air. When you 're a spirit in Heaven, and I in 
darkness, you '11 know all. — There ! They flit, like 
shadows, in the light, and keep the sun from me; yet 
you are in it. That tokens what is to be." 

He paused. His wildness left him, and he seem- 
ed to be mu*sing. At last he spoke. — '' The hour is 
coming, Esther— it breathes upon me now, when 
death will part us, and we shall never meet more 
through all eternity. Thy immortal countenance will 
then be radiant with holy joy; but I shall no more 
look on it; and thy voice of love will no more sound 
for me. — Weep not for me; it can avail me nothing; 
the doom is on me. — Nay, nay, ask me not what I 
mean. The book in which my fate is written, is sealed 
to you; you may not read it. — I must be alone 
awhile," said he, opening the door. '' Do not linger 
so. The time is coming when you would fain flee 
from me, and may not. No more tears, Esther," he 
«aid, taking her hands in his^ as she looked up silently 



m. 



PAUL FELTON. 351 

in his face. *' What is this world's misery to those 
who hope for rest beyond it?" He pressed his lips 
to her forehead, and, turning back, shut the door after 
her. 

When Abel came to the village street he walked 
through it with more confidence than he had done for 
many a day; for he remembered Paul's last words to 
him, and felt as if he had that in his pocket which 
would find him friends again. When he reached the 
shop-door, where he intended buying something to 
eat, it was near noon, and the little room was filled 
with the wise-ones who had come together to take 
their dram, and settle church and state. He stopped 
at the door and looked anxiously in, beginning to feel 
for his money; for he no more expected to gain ad- 
mittance without it here, than one does at a show. 
He stepped upon the door-stone, and began playing 
his change from one hand to the other, looking first 
at it and then at the shopkeeper. 

''Where got you those white-boys, you starveling ? " 
asked the man. '' Come in, and let me take a peep 
at them. Is 't honest money .^ " 

'' I came honestly by it," said Abel, trembling, and 
venturing a little within the door. 

'' That 's no concern of mine," said the man. ''And 
many a glass of liquor I should miss the selling of, 
gentlemen, if none but fair gains bought it." 

"Who have you here.^ " said one, setting down his 
mug, which had just touched his lips, and moving off, 
as Abel sidled up to the counter. — " Why, 't is the 
curst boy! You '11 not take his money, Sam! " 

" Will I not? " replied Sam. " Hand over the bit, 
and tell us what you want. I hold man or boy, who 
has money in his purse, to be every inch a gentle* 



352 PAUL FELTON. 

man." — Sam's customers began to draw back. As 
some were going out at the door he called after them. — 
" Stay," said he, throwing the piece on the counter, 
'' and hear it ring. There 's music for you, my lads, 
sweeter than a church bell." 

'^ Don 't take it, Sam," said the customer. '*He 's 
sent; and it will fare ill with you if you have dealings 
with him." 

''Not take it! Why, Mr. Stitchcloth, you would 
rig him up out of your cabbagings, fit to be the Old 
One's harlequin, for another such piece as this," 
said Sam, letting it drop through the hole in the 
counter, into the drawer. — '' There, didn't you hear 
them welcome him^ the bright lads! What care I 
whose coining it is? The Devil may have his mint, 
if he chooses, and at little cost too. Who, think ye, 
but he, set the wheels of that coach a-going, that is 
passing there ? Did not she within it, looking so fair 
and smiling, sell herself to one as old as Satan, though 
to my mind, not so handsome or proper a gentleman. — 
'Tis the way of the world, and I'll not be singular! 
Bread, did you ask for, my pretty youth .^ There it is," 
said he, with a cast of his eye at the baker. '' But 
have a care that it does n't poison you, for the Devil 
is the father of cheats, and his child had the making 
on 't." — ^ Abel looked pleased as he took it. '^ There's 
a sweet smile! Call again, my lad, but at another 
hour; for these gentlemen have no great liking to you, 
and you may stop the running of my tap." 

'' I '11 never take change of you again," said the 
tailor, as he left the shop, '* till that drawer is empty; 
for I would as soon handle iron at white-heat as touch 
that piece." — Sam laughed heartily, and called out 
to Abel, as he crawled from the shop, " Give my com- 



PAUL FELTON. 353 

pliments to your master, boy, and tell him, that h 
should be happy to supply him, or any of his likely 
family." — Abel bent his way toward the house of 
his protector, and took a seat under the hedge, wait- 
ing his coming. 

When Paul was once more alone, his last mourn- 
ful words to Esther still sounded in his ears. Her 
prayer for him (of which he heard something, as in a 
dream) as she folded her protecting arms round him, 
the home and shelter he felt her to be to him, when 
he fell on her neck and cried out that he was safe; 
the expression of woe, and pity, and love with which 
she looked up in his face at leaving him, came 
all at once to his mind with a clear and calming in- 
fluence. He felt the spring of blood once more at 
his heart; and his old affections flowed through him 
again with a living warmth. The passions that had 
raged in him like fire, went suddenly out; the horrors 
that had whirled round him and crazed his brain, 
passed off*; he felt again the earth firm under him, 
and saw that he stood in the cheerful light which fell 
like a blessing upon all things that lay in the beautiful 
and assured tranquillity of nature. It was like com- 
ing out of one of those terrific dreams, in which we 
have passed through multitudes of horrid sights and 
dangers, and finding it bright morning, and all as safe 
and quiet as it was yesterday. The mere returning 
of the simple sense of reality brought tears of joy and 
thankfulness to his eyes. — *^ Am I again amongst 
the abodes of men? and standing amidst the works 
of God.'' Are light, and truth, and beauty once more 
round me ? And were all the horrors I have passed 
through, a conjuration and a lie, raised to damn me? 
Come, and assure me of it, Esther; for though thou 
23 



354 PAUL FELTON. 

walkest with me here, thou seemest to me kindred 
with higher beings. O, I have gazed upon thee, till 
thy rapt looks and beautiful motions have made me 
think thee an imbodied spirit, revealing to me the 
creations that fill the world beyond us — a fair and 
passing vision, returning to the world, which, for a 
while, thou camest from. — Let me go to thee," said 
he, rushing from his room, '' and have thine eye rest 
on mine; and hear thy clear voice, and listen while 
you tellme you will not yet go from me." 

Esther was lying on a sofa, her full dark hair hang- 
ing over her face, and snow-white arm on which her 
forehead rested. — ''My wife," said Paul, as he 
kneeled down by her, '* have I lived only to afflict 
you? I could throw away my life, and count it noth- 
ing, to bring you peace. I should have been the 
soother of all your sorrows, and brought you your 
little daily joys. And is it I who have broken your 
heart, and made life comfortless to you? " 

Esther sobbed audibly. — '' JVo answer for me, 
Esther ? Then it is so. Why do I ask ? And yet a 
vain wish is struggling within me that you might say 
something to quiet a self-accusing mind. My will is 
not in my act; but when I wound your heart, mine 
bleeds doubly." 

''I do believe it, Paul," said she, raising herself, 
and resting on him. '' I have not lost your love yet; 
but dear as it has ever been to me, it is of small 
worth without your confidence. It cannot content me 
unless I feel, as it were, our hearts' blood mingling 
and flowing on warm together. To be loved as I 
would be, we must have one life, one being; our sor- 
rows must no more part us than our joys. But you 
have troubles of the mind, and shut me out, like a 



1 



PAUL FELTON. 355 

stranger, from them; and dreadful thoughts o'er- 
master you, and fatal purposes, to which you seem 
driven; and vain surmises and dark givings-out are 
all I know of them. Is this love, Paul? Is it all your 
heart asks for ? And can it be in your noble nature, 
to give only the poor remnant of your mind and heart 
to her whose whole soul would alone content you ? — 
Yet this is nothing," she cried, hiding her face. 
'^ Those eyes which had ever but one look for me, 
last night were turned in anger, and with a searching 
sternness, on me. — Last night was it? Fears and 
grief have made it seem an age since! This I did 
not deserve, Paul, however too poor a thing I may 
be for a mind of a reach like yours, to rest on." 

'* Your words go like swords through me. Do not 
break down this overburdened spirit with your just 
complainings, Esther. I would not be what I am. 
Think you it is in my disposition to torture and afflict 
you as I have done? — Look up, my love, and tell 
me if I am not changed. There is an inward peace 
here, which I never felt till now. I 've been out of 
the world — out of myself ; and this naked soul has 
driven through fire and whirlwinds; but it has come 
back to its place of rest, to its quiet trust in thee, and 
the repose of thy full love. Could I look on this face 
and — let me not name it. Is not this eye open as 
the day ? And do I not read truth written on this 
brow? When I first saw you, Esther, you seemed 
made up of sensations more exquisite than other 
mortals knew how to think of, as if of a nature be- 
tween us and angels, and moulded to live a perpetual 
self-delight. And when you touched a flower or took 
its perfume, I thought of the light and breeze which 
shone with its beauty and was filled with its odour. 



356 PAUL FELTON. 

You seemed to me too joyous and pure ever to have 
felt our passions or known our sins. And when I 
have sat by you, as I do now, with the soft touch of 
your hand in mine, and your eyes resting fondly on 
mine, I have felt as if undergoing a gentle change, 
and becoming a nature like unto yours; it was to me 
such as I have thought would be the intercourse of 
mortals, when these bodies become incorruptible and 
glorified in another world. — Why should I try to tell 
what I now feel? It is a vain thing. Let me be still, 
while my senses are drinking in delight." 

Esther hung over him, and tears of joy filled her 
eyes. One fell on Paul's forehead. She wiped it 
gently away, and then touched her lips where it fell. 

'^ Take them not away yet, Esther," he murmured; 
'^they are the seal of pardon for my wrongs to you, 
the pledge of your enduring love for me, the promise 
of unchanging joy through life, a joy that is to purify 
me, and fit me to live on with you for ever." — His 
voice faultered, and she saw a tear trickle from under 
his closed lids. 

'' O, I could have lived ages of misery, for an hour 
like this, Paul, were life to end when that hour had 
run out; but I feel that years are in store for us, 
blissful as our souls can bear." 

'^ I hardly dared look up,'' said he, *Hill I heard 
your voice, lest, waking, I should find it a heavenly 
trance I had been rapt in. Come, let me rouse myself 
and make sure that all is real," he said, putting his 
arm round her, as he rose and walked with her to the 
window. 

*' How fresh and new all things look; or rather, 
how like it is to our return to old and remembered 
places, where nature still looks young and healthful^ 



PAUL FELTON. 357 

though we are growing old. But we are not growing 
old, Esther, for life is again beginning in us. Is it a 
new creation, or are other senses given me with which 
to see and feel it ? The boughs swing up, and the leaves 
play as cheerfully as if a breeze, for which they had 
drooped and waited, had just blown on them, and the 
declining sun lights up all things gloriously. What a 
glow it sends over that hedge," said he, as his eye 
passed along it. — ''Hide me! He's come again! 
he follows me ! " cried Paul, turning terror-struck 
from the window. Esther looked at him. His face 
was wild and ghastly, and he tottered as he threw 
himself on her shoulder for support. 

'' Speak, speak, Paul, — who-— what is it — 
where?" 

''There! there! do you not see him?" he uttered 
in a hard-breathed whisper, and pointing back with 
his finger, without daring to look round. 

*' That boy?" asked Esther, trembling; " I've seen 
him before. Who, and what is he, that looks so like 
a tormented thing thrown out upon the earth to pain 
and mischief? " 

•' Speak not of him — power is given him. I feel 
him on me now,'' he screeched, as he sprang with 
an enormous leap from her. — " Off! off! " he cried, 
struggling as if to loose himself from some strong 
grasp. — " They call me, — thousands of voices in my 
ears! Hear them, hear them, Esther! — I come! I 
come!" he yelled out, darting from the room, his 
hair on end, his spread hands and arms stretched out 
before him. — Esther tried to call to him, as she ran 
toward him. Her lips moved, but there was no 
sound: she fell to the floor. 

The shouts and cry alarmed the servants, who 



358 PAUL FELTON, 

rushed into the room. They raised Esther, and laid 
her on the sofa. She gasped once or twice; her eyes 
opened, then closed again. At last the colour came 
to her cheek, and starting up and staring round her: 
— '' My husband ! Where is he ? Fly, seek him ! " 

'^ Which way is he gone, madam? " 

'' I know not. Bring him; on your lives, bring him 
to me ! " She rose and hurried towards the outer 
door. 

'^ Stay, dear madam,'' said her waiting woman. 
*' Whither are you going at this hour? " 

'' Going to my husband, if he is on the earth — or 
to my 'grave." 

'' Do not leave the house bareheaded, madam." 

'' Well, well, bring me something, quickly." The 
woman returned, and was about following Esther. — 
*' Stay here," said she; '' he may return while I am 
gone, and miss me — I can go alone," she murmured, 
as she left the door. '' When Paul leaves me, what 
has the earth for me to fear or care for ? " — She took 
her way to a large, intricate wood, which lay off at a 
distance from the house, and bordering upon part of 
the rocky ridge. 

Soon after Esther left the house, Frank called to 
see her. The woman told all she knew. — '' Gone 
out, and alone, and in such a state of mind! Which 
way? " — " Toward the wood you see yonder, Sir." 
Frank left the house in pursuit of her. He was 
alarmed for her, for he feared Paul, though he knew 
not why. He entered the wood, and wandered through 
it a long time without seeing her. The light was 
growing fainter and fainter, and he became more 
uneasy. At last he found her, leaning against a tree, 
pale and still. He went up to her, and spoke kindly. 



k 



PAUL FELTON. 359 

She seemed not to regard what he said, but asked, 
''Is he no where to be found?" — '^ Search is 
making," replied Frank. " Let me help you home^ 
for you are exhausted ; and you can be of no service 
here." — She put her arm within his and walked on 
slowly, trembling from weakness and fear. Her 
tears fell fast; for Frank's friendly and gentle 
manner to her, in her desolate sorrow, touched her 
heart. 

When Paul left the house, his mind was so hurried 
and confused from the sudden shock and change he 
had undergone, that he missed the passage across the 
ridge, and continued wandering along over and 
between the broken clefts, till at last he came upon 
the wood to which Esther had gone. He was pushing 
swiftly through it, when he caught sight of Frank and 
Esther at a distance. He sprang forward, once, with 
the leap of a tiger, then stood still. Every passion 
within him seemed suddenly struck dead, and the 
mind appeared collecting itself for something fatal; 
all was gloomy and hushed. When he followed them, 
it was slowly and with a cautious step, as if he feared 
his tread would be heard. He kept at a distance, 
without losing sight of them, till they left the wood; 
then stood concealed at the edge of it, watching them 
as they went toward the house. 

Esther's strength gradually returned; and she no 
longer needed the support of Frank's arm. As Paul 
saw her draw her arm from Frank's, *' 'Tis a pity," 
he said, in bitter scorn, *'the wood could not have 
gone with you, that the world might not interrupt your 
loves." He did not follow them, but continued 
pacing to and fro. Sometimes a muttering sound 
came from him; and then again a vehement gesture 



360 PAUL FELTON. 

showed starts of passion. At length he seemed to 
wake again to a clearer sense of the past, and his step 
quickened. *' Yes,'' he cried, ** she did cross me — 
I saw her. She passed like an angel before me — 
and then ! then she vanished. Why am I fooled with 
this show of innocence and beauty? The fiends 
have all! — The universe is a hell; and all else is to 
mock and torture us with longings. What! flesh and 
blood, and look so pure, when the pulse beats high, — 
hot! hot! And seem as ignorant as infancy, as if the 
rebel body told them nothing. Well may the spirits 
laugh at our self-cheating ! And me, too, dark and 
ungainly as I am — gloomy — silent! — O, 't was a 
pretty fancy, to have a fantastic passion to fondle my 
ugliness for a while, then turn to the other, and 
clasp him in heightened beauty! — Ease me, ease 
me of this torture!" he cried, darting from the 
wood. 

It was near midnight when he turned homeward. 
He stopped under an elm near the house, without any 
settled purpose. Esther's father had been sent for, 
but was absent; and Frank, unwilling to leave the 
house, remained till late. The clock in the village at 
last struck twelve, the moon was down, and one black 
cloud over the sky. At last the door opened, and as 
Frank came out, Paul saw him by the light in the 
entry. He came so close to the tree, that Paul drew 
up straight, as he passed; but so dark was it, that he 
only seemed like a blacker shadowy substance going by. 
'^ Now might I do it," thought Paul; ** but he is not 
my victim; some other, doomed like me, must do that 
deed." When the sound of Frank's tread at length 
died away, Paul went to the door, and tried cautiously 
to open it. It was fastened. — '' Shall I knock } No, 



PAUL FELTON. 361 

't is better so. — I have it. I '11 prove her; I '11 know 
her false ere I do it. — To the hut, — to the hut! 
I' 11 watch her nightly. And Abel, he who serves 
me, and whom my soul serves, him I will use 
too." 

'* It may not be," he muttered, as he groped his 
way along, *^ that the last sin 's committed. And shall 
I kill her for her thoughts.^ Who then would live the 
day out, if evil thoughts were death to us? Do they 
not mingle, like blaspheming spirits, with our adoring 
moments? And shall we creatures, of corruption ask 
of our fellows, love constant and untainted? But to 
feign it so! To weep over me in excess of joy and 
fondness ! — so she protested. And I with a simple 
faith believed it, did I ? Women's tears ! Why, they 
are very proverbs. — The wood ! the wood ! Puts 
her arm in his, does she? — and leans on him, too, in 
heart-sick languishment ! Would, and yet dares not; 
loves the sin to very madness, and sighs, ' O, that it 
were no sin ! ' — Away, away; let me not look on 't ! 
'Tis all a lie, a phantasm raised by the powers of hell 
to make my soul theirs. — What ! innocent, and died 
by my hand? Hear them — how they mock and 
laugh at me ! I '11 know more — all ! " 

He made his way forward as well as he could, but 
the darkness and stillness oppressed him. It was as 
if all life in the universe was at an end; nothing but 
death everywhere, and like a power. He was 
climbing a rock, when a cold, lean hand suddenly 
pressed against his face, and a shriek went up that 
made the whole atmosphere one shrill sound; it 
pierced his very body. He could not speak, nor 
move a limb. '* You child of hell," he called out, at 
last, '* who set you on to this ? Speak, where are you ? 
Will you not answer? " 



362 PAUL FELTON. ^ 

Abel, believing that he had touched one of those 
beings who continually haunted him, had in his terror 
fallen from the rock. — *^ Was it not one of them? " 
he Qried, in a feeble voice. ''Is it youj my master? 
Do come and help me. I 'm bruised, dreadfully bruised. 
1 meant no harm.'^ 

'' And what brought you here at this hour, so dark 
a night? " asked Paul, getting down by him. 

^'I was after you. Sir." 

'' And why do you hunt me thus? Is it to make 
me like yourself, a child of the damned? Why were 
you under the hedge to-day? O ! that was a moment 
of more than earthly joy to me, and your blasted form 
crossed me, and flung me out from heaven! " 

" Do not speak to me so," said Abel. '^ I do what 
I must do: and they will never let me leave you any 
more." 

^' Well ! well ! but what made you look so soon for 
me here again? " 

'^ I heard you cry out, and saw you run from the 
house; and then your wife fell, I thought, as she was 
passing the window; and then I remembered what you 
told me, and what They are always telling me about 
something to be done. And it was put into my mind 
that that was it; and somehow, I can 't tell how, that 
I had made you kill her." — Paul shuddered. — *'I 
would have run after you; but I was afraid they would 
see me and catch me; so I crawled through the hedge, 
and went away round the house; and when I got there 
I could see nothing of you. And I looked all along 
this passage and over the wood. At last. Sir, I went 
to the very hut, and looked in, — I did, truly. Sir, 
though something glimmered over my eyes so, I could 
hardly see. I could n't find you anywhere; so I 



PAUL FELTON. 363 

thought I would go back to the house and wait till 
night." — There was nothing more said. Abel soon 
fell asleep, while Paul sat musing till daybreak. 

The clouds now began to break up and move off 
like an army of giants; and the sun soon appeared, 
flinging his light across them, and throwing over them 
gorgeous apparel of purple and gold, making them 
fit attendants on such a king. — '* Rouse you and 
follow me," said Paul, shaking Abel by the arm. 

As he drew near the hut, the vision he had seen 
there, the world of terrors that had been opened to 
him in trance, and the instrument then put into his 
hand, and for a purpose of which he could not doubt, 
came to his mind like a fatal certainty from which 
there was no turning away. He did not recoil in 
horror; there was no shuddering at the thought of the 
deed, no agony of prayer for escape. It acted like 
long dungeon darkness upon him. A sullen stillness 
spread over his mind, dulling his senses, and filling 
the soul with one dark, sleepy thought, dreamlike 
and dim. He entered the hut slowly, and stood in 
the middle of it. No muttering sound came from 
him, nor did he move a limb; his eyes rolled like a 
blind man's, seeing nothing, and searching for light. 
Abel, who had ventured as far as the door, stood 
aghast and breathless, gazing on him; looking for the 
moment that he would sink into the ground, or be 
swept off in sheets of fire. It was nearly an hour be- 
fore there was any motion in him. At last his head 
sunk on his chest, his eyes were cast down, and Abel 
heard him breathe, once, long and heavy. He came 
toward the door with a slow, wandering step. Abel 
shrunk from him as if he had been a dead man put in 
motion. He went to the edge of the bank, and sat 



364 PAUL FELTON. 

down upon the roots of the pine, his feet resting on 
the sand. Abel still kept his eye upon him in awful 
suspense. There was a slender stone lying amongst 
the roots. Paul's eye fell on it, and became fixed. 
By and by he put out his hand and took it up. He 
continued a long while turning it over, and feeling 
it, and looking at it on all sides. He put his hand 
to his bosom, then drew it back, giving a nod, as 
if saying, all was as it should be. '' Come hither, 
Abel,'' he said. Abel went, as if drawn to him. 
'* Here's more money fpr thy day's meal," he said, 
taking some from his pocket. Abel put out his hand, 
but jerked it back as Paul's came near it; and the 
money fell on the sand. He stooped and picked it 
up. Paul took no notice of his fears. — '' Go, next, 
to my house; find out all you can, and bring me word. 
Think not to betray me," he continued, without look- 
ing up. *' I am with you wherever you go." — Abel 
seemed to wither at the words. Paul's eye was fixed 
on him in side glance, till out of sight. Then look- 
ing cautiously round, he drew the knife slowly from 
his bosom. It was pointed. He felt of it. The point 
was dull. He drew it once across the stone. The 
sound curdled his blood. He went on with his work. 
The sun flashed upon him from the sand; there was 
no breeze among the branches, nor anything stirring 
for miles round. No sound reached his ear, but the 
hot, singing noise of the insects under the tree, and 
the whetting of the knife. Blazing noon came, and 
Paul still went on with his work, stopping only to feel 
the point of the knife, examine its handle, and scrape 
off* the rust about it. The sun was at last about set- 
ting; no cloud near it. It was glowing; and its rim 
clearly marked. He looked on it wistfully, as if pray- 



PAUL FELTON. 365 

ing in mind to it, not to forsake him. It half disap- 
peared, then shot suddenly and .silently down. His 
eyes shut; his face for a moment was tremulous and 
mournful, but he did not sigh. When he looked up 
again, there were no bright tree-tops, no holy vesper 
of birds; it was all sad, still twilight. Presently a 
light night-breeze passed over the pines, which gave 
out a low, mourning sound. It struck on his ear like 
the notes of spirits wailing the newly departed. He 
started up, and looked into the shadowy wood, as if he 
saw there the passing pall. He waved his hand once 
or twice before his eyes, to scatter the vision; then, 
turning round again, and placing the stone back among 
the roots, and putting the knife in his bosom, went 
and seated himself before the hut. 

Abel returned at night, but with little news. The 
servants, he said, were continually going out and in, 
but they would not look at him, nor answer him when 
he spoke to them. 

'' Did you see none besides the servants? " 

*' Only young Mr*. Frank Ridgley. He went into 
the house about noon; but I saw nothing more of him." 

'^ I will know where he is to be seen, then," mut- 
tered Paul, rising. 

He passed on through the wood and the rocky pas- 
sage, then took his way to the house. All was quiet. 
He walked round it, but saw nothing. It was to him 
like a place he was shut from for ever, the only blessed 
spot in a world where all else was cursed. He stood 
looking on it, with longing and home-sickness. By 
and by alight appeared in his wife's chamber. He 
raised his eyes to it as to a loved star. Presently 
Esther passed near the window. At the sight of her 
he covered his eyes with his hand. He could bear it 



366 PAUL FELT0N. 

no longer; but rushing from the house, hurried back 
to the hut. 

The next morning Abel was sent again; and the 
day was wearing away with Paul, like the former, 
scarcely conscious what he was doing, or what was 
the purpose of his mind. Abel returned a little past 
noon, telling him that he saw his wife, with Frank, 
going toward the wood on the other side of the ridge, 
about an hour before. Paul sprang up, and ran for- 
ward, Abel following him. He went over every 
mound and through every valley. Frank, however, 
had, in the meantime, returned with Esther from 
searching after her husband; (her father having be- 
fore taken another route,) and recollecting the Devil's 
Haunt, as it was called, set off alone for it immedi- 
ately. After much clambering and toil he reached it, 
traversed the ground, and examined the hut; but no 
trace appeared of Paul. He returned late, tired and 
disappointed. 

The sight of the wood, and what he had witnessed 
there, excited Paul's mind, so that he continued like 
a dog in full chase through it till near midnight, without 
considering how idle was his search at that hour. At 
last he became exhausted; his torpor returned, and he 
went back to his hiding-place, like one w^alking in his 
sleep. 

About dusk, the following day, Abel returned with 
the information that Esther 's father was to set off the 
next morning on a journey of a few days. — '^ Then," 
thought Paul, '^ will be my time to make all sure. 
No husband, no father by, still rooms, and moonlight. 
Will these not put toys into the brain, and make the 
heart beat.^" 

'' You must see him start," he said to Abel, '' and 
mark who goes with him." 




PAUL FELTON. 367 

Abel was in full time to see Mr. Waring enter his 
carriage. He had set off to acquaint Paul's father 
with what had happened, and to consult with him 
what course to pursue. He would have gone sooner, 
had he not been afraid to leave Esther, whom he staid 
with to soothe and comfort; for her mind was nearly 
unsettled. Frank promised, at his going, that no 
pains should be spared to discover Paul, and that he 
would be as a brother to Esther. The old gentleman 
left home with a sorrowful, misgiving heart; and 
Abel hastened to make known his departure, which 
took place about noon. 

Paul sat as he had done each day before, in the same 
spot, passing the knife slowly over the stone, then 
stopping and feeling of it, and looking it over. His 
expression, though dark, was dull and abstracted, 
and his motions heavy, slow and uncertain. The 
blood moved sluggishly, and life seemed scarcely 
going on in him. When Abel came up, Paul did not, 
as usual, conceal the knife. Abel knew it instantly, 
though now bright and sharpened. All his horrors 
rushed upon him; his knees knocked against each 
other, his hands struck against his thighs, and he fell 
on the sand, at Paul's feet — '' The knife !" he cried; 
** hide it! hide it! There 's murder!- — the deed 's doing, 
now, now ! Save me ! take me out o' this blood !'' 
Paul leaped upon the bank, and stood looking down 
on Abel, in stupid horror. He seemed to him struggling 
in a red, clotted sea, which presently appeared sink- 
ing into the ground, leaving drops here and there 
rolling on the sand, till at last he saw nothing more of 
them. 

Abel recovered slowly; and raising himself on his 
knees, looked imploringly in Paul's face. He saw 
nothing there but an unchanging, sullen gloom. 



368 PAUL FELTON. 

'^ And what do you bring me? " asked Paul. 

*^ I saw him leave the house in his carriage this 
noon." 

^' Alone?" 

"Yes, Sir, alone." 

*' To-night it must be done then. Do you not hear 
them telling me, Abel?" 

''Send me not again! " cried Abel. '' O, spare 
me!'' 

''Is it not fated, boy? Think you the bonds of 
hell, that now hold you, can be broken? Look in. Is 
not He there, busy at your heart? Your work is 
doing — mine 's to come, quickly." 

"We 're lost, then !" cried Abel, springing up. " Let 
me go with you." 

Paul continued wandering through the wood; Abel 
following close after him, wherever he turned. They 
went on in silence; Paul now and then sending a 
glance back on Abel, as if he were some evil thing 
dogging him at his heels. 

He at last bent his way to the passage over the 
ridge; and when he had passed it, stopped suddenly, 
turning his eye on Abel. Abel came up. Paul 
pointed towards the house. — " Bring me word quick- 
ly." He then sat down upon a rock, gazing, 
like an outcast, upon the distant chimney-tops of his 
own home, while Abel crawled away to his appointed 
task. Before long, Abel returned, saying he had 
been round the house, but saw nothing, till at last, as 
he was coming away, Mr. Ridgley passed him, and 
went in. A flush crossed Paul's cheek, but he said 
nothing. 

Frank, according to his promise to her father, went 
to see Esther. She was walking the room, when he 



PAUL FELTON. 369 

entered, her arms folded, her long, dark hair fallen 
round her pale face and sunken eye. She looked up at 
him, as asking if there were any good thing to tell 
her. Frank understood it. " Nothing as yet," he 
said; *' but I hope — " She shook her head despond- 
ingly, as she turned away and walked to the window. 
^' Do not despair so," said he, going toward her; 
** all may be right again in a few days." — She drew 
up, as she turned round upon him. Her look had 
something of reproach in it, as if it were not in his 
nature to know what she felt, and that he was thinking 
to cheat a common sorrow. — He shrunk back, and 
moved toward the door. She followed hastily after 
him, and touched his arm. '^ Nay, nay, go not from 
me so; trouble has made me strange. My more than 
brother," said she, giving him her pallid hand, ^^if 
you never see me again, do not remember that I ever 
looked in unkindness on you. Or if I ever spoke 
lightly when you were earnest, forget it, will you ? — 
It seems to me, I think," she said, after a pause, and 
passing her hand over her brow, as if trying to recall 
her thoughts, — '* I think I once made light of what 
you said to me.— Well, well, there 's no more trifling in 
this world. — Yes, others may, but I may not. — All 's 
dark here ; — go where 't is brighter ! " He looked at 
her earnestly. He saw the hurried state of mind 
pass of, and her calm sorrow returning. He bade 
her a kind good night, saying he would see her again 
in the morning. — '^ Perhaps so," said she to herself, 
as he left the house. 

She stood at the door looking upward at the stars, and 

then upon the fair, silent moon, whose light fell like 

sleep upon the earth. '' So I stood," said she '* and so 

the moon shone on us, when he first told me that he 

24 



370 PAUL FELTON. 

loved me. — And there — there he comes ! " she cried ^ 
as her eye caught the figure of a man descending a 
hill on the road. He sunk gradually down, till lost 
behind the hedge. At last she heard his step, as he 
drew near the house. '^ Paul!" she called out, in an 
eager, shrill voice. There was no answer but that 
of the sharp taunting echoes which rang off among the 
rocks. *' He 's dead, he 's dead, and they mock me 
with it!" She listened with a beating heart. The 
man passed by, and the sound of his steady tread 
died slowly away along the road. She walked back 
into the parlour; and lying down on the sofa, her 
sufferings and present state wandered like a dream 
through her mind. 

Mr. Waring began his journey; but the farther he 
went from home, the more troubled he became. A 
misgiving, which he could not control, took possession 
of him; and he at last ordered his servant to drive 
back. As soon as he reached home, he set off for 
his daughter's house. 

Paul had remained seated on the rock. Abel was 
a little below him, looking wistfully and eagerly at 
him, as if his life depended upon each look and motion 
of Paul's. For along time, there was no more move- 
ment or change of expression, than if he had been a 
statue cut out of the rock he sat on. But as the time 
drew near, the heavy, settled gloom broke slowly up, 
and troubled and fearful thoughts began to stir them- 
selves in his mind. Abel saw sudden tremblings pass 
over his frame, and a twitching of the muscles of the 
face. As the huge, mysterious shadows of evening 
gathered round him, he looked hastily about, and 
there were sudden flashings of the eye. He muttered 
something, as if the shadows had been spirits come to 



PAUL FELTON. 371 

watch and warn him to his work. Abel looked on 
with clasped hands, as if praying it might not be, till 
he became so weak that he could hardly keep his seat. 
** They are on him now! " cried Abel to himself. *' O, 
how they torture him! And they are coming — I feel 
them coming — they are seizing me 1 " — A cold 
sweat ran over his body. 

The twilight died away. For a while Paul became 
motionless again, and lost in thought; till leaping 
suddenly to the ground, with his eye eagerly fixed, 
grasping the knife and crying out, *' On ! on 1 I '11 fol- 
low you 1 " he rushed swiftly forward.—*' Stay ! stay I " 
shrieked Abel, darting after him, and seizing upon 
the skirts of his coat. Paul ran on, till he dragged 
Abel to the earth, and his hold loosened. He turned, 
and saw the poor boy stretched on the ground. — 
'' Stop, let me go with you," gasped out Abel. — '* Do 
not murder — murder! " 

'* Murder? The deed's yours — Theirs. They 
who set you on to curse me — all do it. — 'T is done! 
One hell swallows up all!" he screamed, spurning 
Abel from him, and rushing on again. This was too 
much for Abel's weakened reason. To believe he 
had been used as the eternal curse of the man who 
had been kind to him and nourished him, when no 
one else would so much as look on him, and to be 
thrown off at last by him, too! — He sprang from the 
ground, he leaped, he danced, he shouted, and ran in, 
mad, among the rocks. 

When Mr. Waring reached the house, he found 
his daughter lying in a state of mind but faintly con- 
scious of what had passed. He took her hand, and 
called her by name. She looked up at him surpris- 
ed. — * * I thought you had gone, Sir ! — Why are you 



372 PAUL FELTON. 

here?" she asked eagerly, as she rose. *^ Is he 
found ? is he mad — dead ? " 

'' We have discovered nothing; but I was unwilUng 
to leave you." 

''Then you would not leave me; yet he could — 
he could leave me — break my heart, and leave me 
to die alone, all alone. — Do not blame me, Paul; 
indeed, indeed, I meant nothing. I know, mortal 
cannot tell or think how much you love me. — Come, 
let me part back your hair — So ! so ! I must smooth 
that brow, too. There ! there ! JYow you look as 
you do when you call me your own Esther!" 

'' My child, my daughter," said her father, ''try 
to recollect yourself." 

" I do now; but my mind wanders strangely. O, 
my father, he had a soul so large 1 And when wild 
thoughts, I know not what they were, did not possess 
it, it was so full of love for me ! They fired his brain, 
and he 's gone away to die, none know whither; and 
I cannot go to him. — But I, too, shall die soon; and 
then I'll meet him where there's no more trouble,'* 
she sobbed out, as she fell on her father's neck, while 
he supported her in his arms. 

At this instant Paul reached one of the windows; 
the curtains were partly closed. There was a dim 
light in the room. He had heard that the father had 
gone on his journey ; and not long before, Abel had 
seen Frank go into the house. He could just per- 
ceive his wife hanging round some one's neck, and 
the man's arm round her waist. At the sight, he gave 
a shout of demoniac triumph, and ran from the window. 
Loud as it was, Esther w^as too much lost in her 
wretchedness to hear it. Her father was alarmed; 
and without telling her what he had heard or suspect- 



4 



PAUL FELTON. 373 

ed, advised her to rest awhile, and then went out with 
the servants. Thej returned disappointed. He told 
Esther he would not leave the house that night, as 
she was not well. At a late hour, all being still 
abroad, they retired to rest; and Esther, worn with 
her distress, soon fell into a deep sleep. 

Paul drew near the house once more, and watched 
till the last light was put out. — '' The innocent and 
guilty both sleep, all but Paul! Not even the grave 
will be a resting place for me! They hunt and drive 
me to the deed; and when 'tis done, will snatch the 
abhorred soul to fires and tortures. Why should I 
rest more ? The bosom I slept sweetly on — blissful 
dreams stealing over me — the bosom that to my de- 
lighted soul seemed all fond and faithful — why, what 
harboured in it? Lust and deceit, and sly, plotting 
thoughts, showing love where they most loathed. 
They stung me, — ay, in my sleep, crept out upon 
me, and stung me, — poisoned my very soul — hot, 
burning poisons ! — Peace, peace, your promptings, 
Ye that put me to this deed, — drive me not mad ! 
Am I not about it? " 

He walked up cautiously to the door, and taking a 
key from his pocket, unlocked it, and went in. There 
was now a suspense of all feeling in him. He entered 
the parlour. His wife's shawl was hanging on the 
back of a chair; books in which he had read to her 
were lying on the table, and her work-table, near it, 
open. His eye passed over them, but there was no 
emotion. He left the room, and ascended the stains 
with a slow, soft step, stealing through his own house 
cautiously as a thief He unlocked the door of his 
dressing-room, and passed on without noticing any 
part of it. His hand shook as he partly opened his 



S74 PAUL FELTON. 

wife's chamber door. He listened — all was still. 
He cast his eye round, then entered and shut the 
door after him. He walked up by the side of her bed 
without turning his eyes towards it, and seated himself 
down upon it, by her. Then it was he dared to look 
on her, as she lay in all her beauty, wrapt in a sleep 
so gentle he could not hear her breathing. She 
looked as if an angel talked with her in her dreams. 
Her dark, glossy hair had fallen over her bright, fair 
neck and bosom, and the moonlight, striking through 
it, penciled it in beautiful thready shadows on her. 

Paul sat for a while with folded arms, looking down 
on her. His eye moved not, and in his dark face 
was the unchanging hardness of stone. His mind 
appeared elsewhere. There was no longer feeling in 
him. He seemed waiting the order of some stern 
power. The command at last came. He laid his 
hand upon her heart, and felt its regular beat; then 
drew the knife from his bosom. Once more he laid 
his hand upon her heart; then put the point there. 
He pressed his eyes close with one hand, and the 
knife sunk to the handle. There was a convulsive 
start, and a groan. He looked on her. A slight 
flutter passed over her frame, and her filmy eyes 
opened on him once; but he looked as senseless as 
the body that lay before him. The moon shone fully 
on the corpse, and on him that sat by it; and the si- 
lent night went on. By and by, up came the sun in 
the hot flushed sky, and sent his rays over them. 
Paul moved not, nor heeded the change. There was 
no noise, nor motion — there were they two together, 
like two of the dead. 

At last Esther's attendant, entering suddenly, saw 
the gloomy figure of Paul before her. She ran out 



PAUL FELTON. 375 

with a cry of terror, and in a moment the room was 
filled with servants. The old man came in, trembling 
and weak; no tear was wrung from him, nor a groan. 
He bowed his head, as saying, It is done. 

The alarm was given, and Frank, with the neigh- 
bours, went up to the chamber. Though the room 
was nearly full, not a sound was heard. The stillness 
seemed to spread from Paul and the dead, over them 
all. Frank and some others came near him, and 
stood before him; but he continued looking on his wife, 
as he sat with his crossed hands resting on his thigh; 
while the one which had done the murder, still held 
the bloody knife. 

No one moved. At last they looked at each other, 
and one of them took Paul by the wrist. He turned 
his slow, heavy eye on them, as if asking who they 
were, and what they wanted. They instinctively 
shrunk back, letting go their hold, and his arm fell 
like a dead man's. 

There was a movement near the door; and presently 
Abel stood directly before Paul, his hands drawn be- 
tween his knees, his body distorted and writhing as 
with pain; the muscles of his face hard and twisted, 
and his features pinched, cold, and blue. There was 
a gleam and glitter, and something of a laugh, and 
anguish, too, in his crazed eye, as it flitted back and 
forth from Esther to Paul. At last Paul glanced up- 
on him. At the sight of Abel he gave a shuddering 
start that shook the room. He looked once more on 
his wife; his hair rose up, and eyes became wild. — 
'^ Esther! '' he gasped out, tossing up his arms as he 
threw himself forward. He struck the bed, and fell 
to the floor. Abel looked, and saw his face black 
with the rush of blood to the head; then giving a leap 



376 PAUL FELTON. 

at which he nearly touched the ceiling, with a deaf- 
ening shriek that rung through the house, darted out 
of the chamber, and, at a spring, reached the outer 
door. 

They felt of Paul. —Life had left him. 

Frank took the father from the room. Preparations 
were hastily made; and about the close of the day, Es- 
ther's body, followed by a few neighbours and friends, 
was carried to the grave. The grave-yard was not far 
from the foot of the stony ridge. As they drew near 
it, the sun was just going down, and the sky clear, 
and of a bright, warm glow. Presently a figure was 
seen running and darting in crossing movements along 
the top of the ridge, leaping from point to point, more 
like a creature of the air than of the earth, for it hard- 
ly seemed to touch on any thing. It was mad Abel. 
So swift and shooting were his motions, and so quick- 
ly did he leap and dance to and fro, that it appeared 
to the dazzled eye as if there were hundreds holding 
their hellish revels in the air; and now and then a 
wild laugh reached the mourners, that seemed to come 
out from the still sky. When it was night, the men 
who had made Paul's grave a little without the con- 
secrated ground, came to the house, and taking up 
the body, moved off toward the place in which they 
were to lay it. — No bell tolled for the departed; no 
one followed to mourn over him, as he was laid in the 
ground away from man, or to hear the earth fall on 
his coffin — that sound which makes us feel as if our 
living bodies, too, were crumbling into dust. 

It had been a chilly night; and while the frost was 
yet heavy on the grass, some of the neighbours went 
to wonder and moralize over Paul's grave. There 
appeared something singular upon it. They ventured 



PAUL FELTON. 377 

timidly on, and found lying across it, poor Abel. He 
was apparently dead; and some of the boldest took 
hold of him. He opened his eyes a little, and uttered 
a faint, weak cry. They dropped their hold; his limbs 
quivered and stretched out rigid — then relaxed. His 
breath came once, broken and quick — it was his last. 



THE SON. 



-thou art all obedience, love and goodness. 



I dare say that which thousand fathers cannot, 
And that 's my precious comfort ; never son 

Was in the way of more celestial rising ; 

The Old Late. 



There is no virtue without a characteristic beauty 
to render it particularly loved of the good, and to 
make the bad ashamed of their neglect of it. To do 
what is right argues superior taste as well as morals; 
and those whose practice is evil feel an inferiority of 
intellectual power and enjoyment, even where they 
take no concern for a principle. Doing well has 
something more in it than the mere fulfilling of a duty. 
It is a cause of a just sense of elevation of character; 
it clears and strengthens the spirits; it gives higher 
reaches of thought; it widens our benevolence, and 
makes the current of our peculiar affections swift and 
deep. A sacrifice was never yet oflfered to a princi- 
ple, that was not made up to us by self-approval, and 
the consideration of what our degradation would have 
been, had we done otherwise. Certainly it is a 
pleasant and a wise thing, then, to follow what is right, 
when we only go along without affections, and take 
the easy way of the better propensities of our nature. 

The world is sensible of these truths, let it act as 
it ma,y. It is not because of his integrity alone that 



THE SON. 379 

it relies on an honest man; but it has more confidence 
in his judgment and wise conduct, in the long run, 
than in the schemes of those of greater intellect, who 
go at large without any landmarks of principle. So 
that virtue seems of a double nature, and to stand 
oftentimes in the place of what we call talents. 

This reasoning, or rather feeling, of the world is 
right; for the honest man only falls in with the order 
of nature, which is grounded in truth, and will endure 
along with it. And such a hold has a good man upon 
the world, even where he has not been called upon to 
make a sacrifice to a principle, or to take a stand 
against wrong, but has merely avoided running into 
vices, and suffered himself to be borne along by the 
delightful and kind affections of private life, and has 
found his pleasure in practising the duties of home, 
that he is looked up to with respect, as well as re- 
garded with kindness. We attach certain notions of 
refinement to his thoughts, and of depth to his senti- 
ment, and the impression he makes on us is beautiful 
and peculiar. Although we may have nothing in 
particular to object to in other men, and though they 
may be very well, in their way, still, while in his 
presence, they strike us as lacking something, we 
can hardly say what — a certain sensitive delicacy of 
character and manner, wanting which, they affect us 
as more or less insensible, or even vulgar. 

No creature in the world has this character so finely 
marked in him, as a respectful and affectionate son — 
particularly in his relation to his mother. Every little 
attention he pays her is not only an expression of 
filial attachment, and a grateful acknowledgment of 
past cares, but is an evidence of a tenderness of disposi- 
tion which moves us the more, because not so much 



380 THE SON. 

looked on as an essential property in a man's character, 
as an added grace which is bestowed only upon a few. 
His regards do not appear like mere habits of duty, 
nor does his watchfulness of his mother's wishes seem 
like taught submission to her will. They are the 
native courtesies of a feeling mind, showing them- 
selves amid stern virtues and masculine energies, 
like gleams of light on points of rocks. They are 
delightful as evidences of power yielding voluntary 
homage to the delicacy of the soul. The armed knee 
is bent, and the heart of the mailed man laid bare. 

Feelings that would seem to be at variance with 
each other, meet together and harmonize in the breast 
of a son. Every call of the mother which he answers 
to. and every act of submission which he performs, 
are not only so many acknowledgments of her author- 
ity, but so many instances, also, of kindness, and 
marks of protecting regard. The servant and de- 
fender, the child and guardian, are all mingled in him. 
The world looks on him in this way; and to draw 
upon a man the confidence, the respect, and the love 
of the world, it is enough to say of him, He is a 
good Son. 



*'The sun not set yet, Thomas?" ''Not quite, 
Sir. It blazes through the trees on the hill yonder, as 
if the branches were all on fire." 

Arthur raised himself heavily forward, and with his 
hat still over his brow, turned his glazed and dim eyes 
toward the setting sun. It was only the night before 
that he had heard his mother was ill, and could sur- 
vive but a day or two. He had lived nearly apart 



THE SON. 381 

from society, and being a lad of a thoughtful, dreamy 
mind, had made a world to himself His thoughts and 
feelings were so much in it, that except in relation to 
his own home, there were the same vague and 
strange notions in his brain concerning the state 
of things surrounding him, as we have of a foreign 
land. 

The main feeling which this self-made world excited 
in him was love ; and as with most at his time of life, 
his mind had formed for itself a being suited to its 
own fancies. This was the romance of life; and 
though men, with minds like his, often-times make 
imagination to stand in the place of real existence^ 
and to take to itself as deep feeling and concern, yet 
in the domestic relations, which are so near, and 
usual, and private, they feel longer and more deeply 
than those do who look upon their homes as only a 
better part of the world which they belong to. Indeed, 
in affectionate and good men of a visionary cast, it is 
in some sort only realizing their hopes and desires, to 
turn them homeward. Arthur felt that it was so; and 
he loved his household the more, that they gave him 
an earnest of one day realizing all his hopes and 
attachments. 

Arthur's mother was peculiarly dear to him, in 
having a character so much like his own. For though 
the cares and attachments of life had long ago taken 
place of a fanciful existence in her, yet her natural 
turn of mind was strong enough to give to these 
something of the romance of her disposition. This 
had led to a more than usual openness and intimacy 
between Arthur and his mother, and now brought to 
his remembrance the hours they had sat together by 
the fire-light, when he listened to her mild and 



382 THE SON. 

melancholy voice, as she spoke of what she had 
undergone at the loss of her parents and husband. 
Her gentle rebuke of his faults, her affectionate look 
of approval when he had done well, her care that he 
should be a just man, and her motherly anxiety lest 
the world should go hard with him, all crowded 
into his mind, and he thought that every worldly 
attachment was hereafter to be a vain thing to 
him. 

He had passed the night, before his journey, 
between tumultuous grief, and numb insensibility. 
Stepping into the carriage, with a slow, weak motion, 
like one who was quitting his sick chamber for the 
first time, he began his way homeward. Ashe lifted 
his eyes upward, the few stars that were here and 
there over the sky, seemed to look down in pity, and 
shed a religious and healing light upon him. But 
they soon went out, one after another, and as the last 
faded from his imploring sight, it was as if every 
thing good and holy had forsaken him. The faint 
tint ip. the east soon became a ruddy glow, and the 
sun, shooting upward, burst over every living thing in 
full glory. The sight went to Arthur's sick heart, as 
if it were in mockery of his misery. 

Leaning back in his carriage, with his hand over 
his eyes, he was carried along, hardly sensible it was 
day. The old servant, Thomas, who was sitting by 
his side, went on talking in a low monotonous tone; 
but Arthur only heard something sounding in his ears, 
scarcely heeding that it was a human voice. He had 
a sense of wearisomeness from the motion of the 
carriage, but in all things else the day passed as a 
melancholy dream. 

Almost the first words Arthur spoke were those I 



THE SON. 383 

have mentioned. As he looked out upon the setting 
sun, he shuddered through his whole frame, and then 
became sick and pale, for he knew the hill near him; 
and as they wound round it, some peculiar old trees 
appeared; and he was in a few minutes in the midst 
of the scenery near his home. The river before him, 
reflecting the rich evening sky, looked as if poured 
out from a molten mine ; and the birds, gathering in, 
were shooting across each other, bursting into short, 
gay notes, or singing their evening songs in the trees: 
It was a bitter thing to find all so bright and cheerful, 
and so near his own home too. His horses' hoofs 
struck upon the old wooden bridge: The sound went 
to his heart. It was here his mother took her last 
leave of him, and blessed him. 

As he passed through the village, there was a feeling 
of strangeness, that every thing should be just as it 
was when he left it. An undefined thought floated in 
his mind, that his mother's state should produce a 
visible change in all that he had been familiar with. 
But the boys were at their noisy games in the street, 
the labourers returning together from their work, and 
the old men sitting quietly at their doors. He 
concealed himself as well as he could, and bade 
Thomas hasten on. 

As they drew near the house, the night was shutting 
in about it, and there was a melancholy, gusty sound 
in the trees. Arthur felt as if approaching his mother's 
tomb. He entered the parlour. All was as gloomy 
and still as a deserted house. Presently he heard a 
slow, cautious step, over-head. It was in his mother's 
chamber. His sister had seen him from the window. 
She hurried down, and threw her arms about her 
brother's neck, without uttering a word. As soon as 



384 THE SON. 

he could speak, he asked, '^ Is she alive ? " — he could 
not say, my mother. '^ She is sleeping," answered 
his sister, '^ and must not know to night that you are 
here; she is too weak to bear it now." '^ I will go 
look at her then, while she sleeps,*' said he, drawing 
his handkerchief from his face. His sister's sympathy 
had made him shed the first tears which had fallen 
from him that day, and he was more composed. 

He entered the chamber with a deep and still awe 
upon him; and as he drew near his mother's bed-side, 
and looked on her pale, placid, and motionless face, 
he scarcely dared breathe, lest he should disturb the 
secret communion that the soul was holding with the 
world into which it was soon to enter. His heavy 
grief, in the loss that he was about to suffer, was 
forgotten in the feeling of a holy inspiration, and he 
was, as it were, in the midst of invisible spirits ascend- 
ing and descending. His mother's lips moved slightly 
as she uttered an indistinct sound. He drew back, 
and his sister went near to her, and she spoke. It 
was the same gentle voice which he had known and 
felt from his childhood. The exaltation of his soul lefl 
him, he sunk down, and his misery went over him like 
a flood. 

The next day, as soon as his mother became 
composed enough to see him, Arthur went into her 
chamber. She stretched out her feeble hand, and 
turned toward him, with a look that blessed him. It 
was the short struggle of a meek spirit. She covered 
her eyes with her hand, and the tears trickled down 
between her pale, thin fingers. As soon as she became 
tranquil, she spoke of the gratitude she felt at being 
spared to see him before she died. 

'* My dear mother," said Arthur. But he could 



THE SON. 3811 

not go on; his voice choked, and his eyes filled with 
tears. ^' Do not be so afflicted, Arthur, at the loss of 
me. We are not to part for ever. Remember, too, 
how comfortable and happy you have made my days. 
Heaven, 1 know, will bless so good a son as you have 
been to me. You will have that consolation, my son, 
which visits but a few — you will be able to look 
back upon your past conduct to me, not without pain 
only, but with a holy joy. And think, hereafter, of 
the peace of mind you give me, now that I am about 
to die, in the thought that I am leaving your sister to 
your love and care. So long as you live, she will 
find you a father and brother to her." She paused 
for a moment. '' I have long felt that I could meet 
death with composure; but I did not know,^' she said, 
'' I did not know, till now that the hour is come, how 
hard a thing it would be to leave my children." 

After a little while she spoke of his father, and 
said, she had lived in the belief that he was mindful 
of her, and with the conviction, which grew stronger 
as death approached, that she should meet him in 
another world. She spoke but little more, as she 
grew weaker and weaker every hour. Arthur sat by 
in silence, holding her hand. He saw that she was 
sensible he was watching her countenance, for every 
now and then she opened her eyes upon him, and 
endeavoured to smile. 

The day wore slowly away. The sun went down, 
and the still twilight came on. Nothing was heard 
but the ticking of the watch, telling him with a resistless 
power, that the hour was drawing nigh. He gasped, 
as if under some invisible, gigantic grasp, which it 
was not for human strength to struggle against. 

It was now quite dark, and by the pale light of the 
25 



386 THE SON. 

night-lamp in the chimney-corner, the furniture in the 
room threw huge and uncouth figures over the walls. 
All was unsubstantial and visionary; and the shadowy 
ministers of death appeared gathering round, waiting 
the duty of the hour appointed them Arthur shuddered 
for a moment with superstitious awe ; but the solemn 
elevation which a good man feels at the sight of the 
dying took possession of him, and he became calm 
again. 

The approach of death has so much which is exalt- 
ing that our grief, for the time, is forgotten. And 
could one who had seen Arthur a few hours before, 
now have looked upon the grave and even grand 
repose of his countenance, he would hardly have 
known him. 

The livid hue of death was fast spreading over his 
mother's face. He stooped forward to catch the 
sound of her breathing. It grew quick and faint. — 
'' My mother." — She opened her eyes for the last 
time, upon him, and a faint flush passed over her 
cheek — there was the serenity of an angel in her 
look. Her hand just pressed his: — it was all over. 

His spirit had endured to its utmost; it sunk down 
from its unearthly height; and with his face upon his 
mother's pillow, he wept like a child. He arose with 
a softened grief, and stepping into an adjoining 
chamber, spoke to his aunt. *' It is past," said he. 
'^ Is my sister asleep? — Well, be it so: let her have 
rest; she needs it." He then went to his own 
chamber, and shut himself in. 

It is a merciful thing that the intense sufl^ering of 
sensitive minds makes to itself a relief Violent grief 
brings on a torpor and indistinctness, as from long 
Watching. It is not till the violence of affliction has 



THE SON. 387 

subsided, and gentle and soothing thoughts can find 
room to mix with our sorrow, and holy consolations 
can minister to us, that we are able to know fully our 
loss, and see clearly what has been torn away from 
our affections. It was so with Arthur. Unconnected 
thoughts, with melancholy but half-formed images, 
were floating in his mind ; and now and then a gleam 
of light would pass through it, as if he had been in a 
troubled trance, and all was right again. His worn 
and tired feelings at last found rest in sleep. 

It is an impression which we cannot rid ourselves 
of, if we would, when sitting by the body of a friend, 
that he has still a consciousness of our presence — that 
though the common concerns of the world have no 
more to do with him, he has still a love and care of 
us. The face which we had so long been familiar 
with, when it was all life and motion, seems only in a 
state of rest. We know not how to make it real to 
ourselves, that in the body before us there is not a 
something still alive. 

Arthur was in such a state of mind, as he sat alone 
in the room by his mother, the day after her death. 
It was as if her soul was holding communion with 
pure spirits in paradise, though it still abode in 
the body that lay before him. He felt as if sanc- 
tified by the presence of one to whom the other 
world had been laid open — as if under the lore 
and protection of one made holy. The religious 
reflections that his mother had early taught him, gave 
him strength; a spiritual composure stole over him, 
and he found himself prepared to perform the last 
offices to the dead. 

Is it not enough to see our friends die, and part 
with them for the rest of our days — to reflect that 



388 THE SON. 

we shall hear their voices no more, and that they will 
never look on us again — to see that turning to cor- 
ruption which was but just now alive, and eloquent, 
and: beautiful with the sensations of the soul? Are 
our sorrows so sacred and peculiar as to make the 
world as vanity to us, and the men of it as strangers, 
and shall we not be left to our afflictions for a few 
hours? Must we be brought out at such a time to 
the concerned or careless gaze of those we know 
not, or be made to bear the formal proffers of conso- 
lation from acquaintances, who will go away and for- 
get it all? Shall we not be suffered for a little while, 
a holy and healing communion with the dead? Must 
the kindred stillness and gloom of our dwelling be 
changed for the show of the pall, the talk of the pass- 
ers-by, and the broad and piercing light of the com- 
mon sun? Must the ceremonies of the world wait on 
us, even to the open graves of our friends? 

When the hour came, Arthur rose with a firm step 
and fixed eye, though his face was tremulous with the 
struggle within him. He went to his sister, and took 
her arm within his. The bell struck. Its heavy, 
undulating sound rolled forward like a sea. He felt 
a violent beating through his frame, which shook him 
so that he reeled . It was but a momentary weakness. 
He moved on, passing those who surrounded him, as 
if they had been shadows. While he followed the 
slow hearse, there was a vacancy in his eye, as it 
rested on the coffin, which showed him hardly con- 
scious of what was before him. His spirit was with 
his mother's. As he reached the grave, he shrunk 
back and turned deadly pale; but dropping his head 
upon his breast, and drawing his hat over his face, he 
gtood motionless as a statue till the service was over. 



THE SON. 389 

He had gone through all that the forms of society 
required of him. For as painful as the effort was, 
and as little suited as such forms were to his own 
thoughts upon the subject, yet he could not do any 
thing that might appear to the world like a want of 
reverence and respect for his mother. The scene 
was ended, and the inward struggle over; and now 
that he was left to himself, the greatness of his loss 
came up full and distinctly before him. 

It was a gloomy and chilly evening when he return- 
ed home. As he entered the house from which his 
mother had gone for ever, a sense of dreary emptiness 
oppressed him, as if his abode had been deserted by 
every living thing. He walked into his mother's 
chamber. The naked bedstead, and the chair in which 
she used to sit, were all that were left in the room. 
As he threw himself back into the chair, he groaned 
in the bitterness of his spirit. A feeling of forlorn- 
ness came over him, which was not to be relieved by 
tears. She whom he watched over in her dying hour, 
and whom he had talked to as she lay before him in 
death, as if she could hear and answer him, had 
gone from him. Nothing was left for the senses to 
fasten fondly on, and time had not yet taught him to 
think of her only as a spirit. But time and holy en- 
deavours brought this consolation; and the little of 
life that a wasting disease left him, was past by him, 
when alone, in thoughtful tranquillity; and among his 
friends he appeared with that gentle cheerfulness 
which, before his mother's death, had been a part of 
his nature. 



A LETTER FROM TOWN, 



<' Shall I not take mine ease in mine inn ? " 

Shakspeare. 

"If your concern for pleasing others arises from innate benevolence, it 
never fails of success ; if from vanity to excel, its disappointment is no less 
certain." The Spectator. 

*' In a word, good-breeding shows itself most, where, to an ordinary eye, 
it appears the least." Same 



My Dear Friend, 

When I left you and the country, for the city, I 
promised to send you a portion of what I might gather 
up here in the course of my walks, business, and 
visitings; and I now take the first odd moment of 
composure that I have been blessed with since reach- 
ing this bustling city. I say — of composure; for 
though I am naturally of a steady disposition, as you 
well know, you can hardly conceive what a whirligig 
town-life makes of a plain country-gentleman, like 
myself Where I see that men have a clear appre- 
hension of their motives to action, it never jars 
the even motions of my mind, however varied and 
great the action around me may be; and for the very- 
simple reason, I suppose, that wherever there is a 
main, distinct purpose, there must be conducive order, 
however complicated and rapid the movements. But 



A LETTER FROM TOWN. 391 

where men are kept in a perpetual spin-round from a 
mere accidental and hurried touch-and-go meeting 
with one another, I myself, sky, earth, and all 
upon it, get into a whirl, and I find myself fast under- 
going the general metamorphosis, and becoming, like 
every one around me, a humming-top. Yes, my dear 
friend, you have heard a great deal about the city, 
and about its inhabitants; — they are all humming- 
tops: And the best of it is, they are all humming 
one another. But as I have just spun out my turn, 
and am, at present, lying still on my side, I will en- 
deavour to do as those do who think to make amends 
for spending the greater part of life in a round of folly, 
by being wise and moralizing for the little time they 
are in their senses. 

You were a great reader of Doctor Johnson, in 
your younger days; and though you quarrelled with 
many of his criticisms, you were less qualified in your 
admiration of that great man, I believe, than you are 
at this day. I cannot say that time has had the same 
abating influence respecting him upon me. He is no 
less frequently in my thoughts, than formerly. To 
this circumstance you must consider yourself indebted 
for the subject of the present letter, and thank the 
Doctor for whatever may please you in it; for I 
seldom think of him, without calling to mind his love 
of an inn; it. is one of the best-natured traits in his 
character. 

There certainly is no place in the world where a man 
feels so independent and easy, and so inclined to take 
clear comfort. It is equally well fitted to nearly all sorts 
of characters. The blackguard goes to it to lord it over 
his own gang, put the host in good humour, have full 
swing amongst the grooms and waiters, and sharpen 



392 A LETTER FROM TOWN> 

his wits upon the comers-in. He visits it nightly, as 
much for his improvement in his calling, as for his 
pleasure; and goes home as satisfied when he has 
done well, as those who have finished more serious 
duties with duller heads. The humorist may have 
his own way there, and the surly man keep his corner, 
and pass himself oflT for one of grave taciturnity; in 
short, no where else can so various and opposite dis- 
positions herd together, with so little annoyance to 
each other. 

It is the world in little. Men of all sizes, com- 
plexions, and callings, are as close stowed as beasts 
at a cattle-show, and give as good opportunity to ob- 
serve their points and varieties. Here are to be met 
with, politicians, who never had place or pension, 
with plans to keep order without law — beaux in rusty 
hats, and coats white in the shoulders — gray-headed 
midshipmen who could ''sink a navy" — Laputa 
philosophers — hen-pecked husbands, venting their 
lungs and spiriting up their courage — quiet, staid 
bachelors, who eat and drink by weight and measure, 
and sleep by the clock — the dapper gentleman, 
whose unsoiled suit has been as long known as the 
wearer, fresh and smooth as a lady's-man — and your 
swaggerer, always dirty, and always rude. Besides 
these, and many more in contrast, come the fillers-up 
of society, your ordinary men, with differences so 
faintly marked that it is quite a science, and an ill-paid 
one, to trace them out. 

One who wishes to study his fellow-men may do it 
here and save himself a deal of travel. He has noth- 
ing to do but to take his seat snugly in a corner, and 
look and listen, and now and then throw in a remark 
in way of suggestion, just to see what it will come to.~ 



A LETTER FROM TOWN. 393 

Out of all doubt, it is a situation best fitted to that 
sort of men who keep about in society for the sole 
purpose of speculating upon human nature. Here 
they find every one off his guard; and they them- 
selves are not kept back by the restraints of ceremony. 

One of these observers will enter a room of motley 
company, with a grave, downward aspect, and pace 
it to and fro with a measured step, as if lost in abstrac- 
tion, or busy about some embarrassing circumstance. 
If you watch him narrowly, you will presently catch 
his eye scaling along over the group of talkers you 
are standing amongst, as if he were taking note of 
each one in the circle. 

I dined out to-day, and told our old friend, Thom- 
son, I would meet him at the tavern, that he might 
take me to his club more conveniently. It was a raw 
evening after a warm day, a time, of all others, when 
a fire is most cheering. Each one drew near the inn 
fire with open hands; and rubbing them together in a 
kind of self-congratulatory way, with a working of the 
shoulders, and a backward throw of the head, was 
prepared for a set-to at a long talk upon whatever 
was going. 

I was sitting in an old round-a-bout which stood 
in one corner, waiting the coming of my friend, with- 
out taking any part in the conversation, when a per- 
son like one I have just before described, walked 
slowly into the room. He was past the middle age, 
and his tailor was probably as old as himself, for his 
dark drab coat was of the fashion of some twenty 
years back. There was a staidness in his manner, as 
much out of fashion as the cut of his clothes, but suit- 
ing well with the strong sagacity of his countenance. 
The nose ^ad the lines from it expressed sarcasm, 



394 A LETTER FROM TOWN. 

which was tempered, however, by a playful good- 
nature about the lips; and his eyes had that look of 
inward contemplation, which makes the finest eyes in 
the world. For the most part, there was a rich haze 
over them; but when they turned their notice out- 
ward, they sent forth rays, like the sun bursting through 
a mist. 

The expression of his eyes and mouth made me ob- 
serve him more closely, and with a good degree of 
interest. For it is not often that we meet with men 
who pass much of their time in society, only because 
of a certain talent at discriminating and observing, 
who have not hard, self-pleased countenances, show- 
ing a sort of merry-making out of the weaknesses of 
our kind, which no good man can take a share in. 
Yet they make smooth way through the world. It 
is ten to one that he whom they next meet with is 
glad of a laugh, though at another's cost; beside, 
that he feels safe and in favour while under the wing 
of one of these world-wits. They know full well that 
few men are brave enough to go to war with ridicule, 
and that as few will put themselves at risk for a general 
principle. 

An habitual, close observation of the customs, 
manners, and characters of society, will beget in even 
the best men a relish for the ridiculous. It is past 
question that a common-sense man, who stands by 
and sees how much folly is wrapt snugly up in cere- 
mony — how much pretence covers indifference, and 
how far, even among the knowing, the conventional 
passes current for the true — must have a scorn of the 
foppery with which the plain fact of life is so fantasti- 
cally tricked out. 

He, then, who has lived long among men as a 



A LETTER FROM TOWN. 395 

looker-on, and has kept his exhorting from turning to 
irony, and his earnestness to indifference, has given a 
thousand fold better proof of sound principle and a tho- 
roughly good heart, than he who, in a fancied benevo- 
lence while apart from the world, sees nothing but the 
growth of virtue, and exalts himself in lauding his spe- 
cies. Even a little taunting of the world may go with a 
right love of it; and he may be humble under his own 
vices who rebukes another's; else who would be our 
censors but the unkind, or our teachers but the proud? 
In a benevolent heart, our very frailties beget an 
anxiety which quickens and fills out the growth of the 
affections; and the keen sighted to our faults are not 
those who love us least, or are most blind to our 
virtues. 

These thoughts passed rapidly through my mind 
while I was looking upon the shrewd, sarcastic, be- 
nevolent face before me. The honest owner of it 
soon saw that I was observing him; and whether it 
was that he perceived any expression in mine that 
pleased him, or that he was inclined to sift me, I 
cannot tell, (I rather think there was a sympathy 
between us ;) after traversing the room once or 
twice more, he made his way next to me into the cir- 
cle. Taking up the poker, and passing it between 
the bars in the same deliberate manner as Vicar 
Primrose did, when about upsetting his daughters' 
washes — '' What companionable, talkative creatures 
a brisk fire makes folks of a dull day," said he. This 
was spoken in that low tone, and half sohloquizing 
manner, in which one utters himself, who wishes to 
bring on a conversation with his next neighbour, yet 
does not feel at liberty to do it by way of direct ad- 
dress, and, so, throws out a remark for him to take 
up or not, as he pleases. 



396 A LETTER FROM TOWN. 

*^ Yes," I replied, turning toward the fire, too; 
'^ they cluster together with spirits as much astir, as 
flies on the sunny side of a tree, of a frosty morning/' 

Putting down the poker and straightening himself 
up, he looked at me with a sociable expression of 
face, as if we understood each other perfectly well; 
and drawing a chair into the circle, said, as he set 
himself down by me, — ''You are from the country, 
Sir, I presume? " 

'' I am so. I come to town, now and then, to see 
an old friend, and to give my faculties a jog in the 
crowd." 

*' Two very good reasons," he remarked. ''And 
may I ask, without being impertinent, whether you 
have two more as good for making the country your 
home } '' 

"I prefer the country, inasmuch as a man sees 
there less of the frivolities of his species, and more of 
nature, than in town, and stands a better chance to 
have a more equable temper, and a more independent 
turn of mind." 

" True," he answered. " The flies you just now 
spoke of will never let a man into their little vanities, 
impertinencies, and enmities, however long he may 
stand, feeling his heart fill with gladness and good- 
will, while looking on so much of the enjoyment which 
God gives to all creatures." 

" That is from no want of honesty in them," said 
I. *' They would not lie to us, could we understand 
their language. They do not keep two characters on 
hand, the one bad, the other good, like a man with 
his home coat and another for visiting. I could be 
tolerably well content with the world, bad as it is, 
would men but show themselves a little more plainly." 



A LETTER FROM TOWN. 397 

'* The difficulty in knowing men," he replied, " arises 
not only from a design in them to deceive us, but also 
from a proneness to deceive themselves. Now, look 
you round," said he, with a half good-natured, half 
sarcastic smile, as h^ gave a side-glance at the com- 
pany, " upon any dozen of men you may happen 
amongst, and it is odds but you will find that ten of 
them have been all their lives industriously making 
up for themselves false characters, have thrown away 
what belonged to them, and might have done good 
service, to put on that which perhaps was well enough 
in itself, but has become fantastical and absurd, be- 
cause it fits ill and is out of place. This lost labour 
is sometimes from self-ignorance, but as often, to be 
sure, from want of thorough honesty. The best of us 
begin with cheating the world more or less, and end^ 
for the most part, our own dupes." 

"The world is perpetually struggling against na- 
ture," said T. ''Who stops to consider, that indivi- 
dual peculiarities of mind and manner are not to be 
changed, without making an inconsistency of the 
parts taken together? " 

'' You are right," he answered. '' Every man has, 
by nature, his peculiar manner, and certain modes of 
expression, and motions of the body proper to himself 
No one is, perhaps, free from little awkwardnesses, 
as they are called, of one kind or another. Now, 
though these are not well in themselves, yet, con- 
sidered in their relations, there is a fitness in them 
which makes them even agreeable to a discerning 
man. They are, in general, in harmony with the 
structure of the body, but, what is better, they are 
so many honest indications of a man's mind and dis- 
position, which are continually coming from him, and 



398 A LETTER FROM TOWN. 

laying his character open to us, without his observing 
them. They are, in some sort, a part of the very con- 
stitution of the being they belong to, and so intimately 
connected with his thoughts and feelings, that he will 
find it hard to rid himself of them without injuring the 
mind itself. He will be instantly put into a forced 
state by so doing, carrying on a double operation, ^ 
and working under rule, for life. For, after all, he 
will never be able to make it to himself so much a 
habit, as to forget his fashion of doing a thing, in his 
concern for what he does. In this way, he will for 
ever be putting teasing checks upon the free play of 
his ordinary feelings, and breaking up the simple 
movements of his impulses. And, so, he will lose 
his credit with the world even for the little sincerity 
that he has left to himself, and fail, in the end, of his 
effect, from his too great anxiety about it. My 
dear sir," said he abruptly, ** did you, for instance, 
ever see a perfectly graceful speaker, as the ladies 
would call him, without being heartily tired of him 
afler twice or thrice hearing him.'*'' 

'' No," answered I ; ''your elegant speakers are 
very much like your Blair writers; there is no fault 
to find with them, only that we are soon weary of 
them both." 

" They always affect me in the same way," he re- 
plied. '* Nor can I call to mind aman who has made 
himself felt after being heard many times, who, either 
from the too frequent repetition of some gesture pro- 
' per enough in itself, perhaps, or from some very odd 
one, has not set all rules of gesticulation at defiance. 
The most stirring speaker I ever heard was remark- 
able for a very singular motion of the hand; yet it 
was natural to him, and always produced an effect; 



A LETTER FROM TOWN. 399 

and I never remember it without a kind of delight, 
and free from any thing of the ludicrous. A man 
should take care how he new-models his manner; for 
unless he is peculiarly fortunate, the chance is that 
he will cast off what we could very well put up with, 
fancying to himself that he is about delighting us 
with what, in truth, we shall never tolerate: A bad 
natural manner is bad enough, but a bad artificial one 
is abominable." 

'' There are certain ungainly tricks of the body," 
I replied, '^generally, however, proceeding from an 
embarrassed mind; but the worst of them never make 
a man half so ridiculous, as is the awkward man who 
puts himself to school to the graces. The most re- 
markable thing about the latter will be a stiff" sort of 
motion, aiming at ease, and a clumsy endeavour after 
elegance. There are others, of a happy temperament 
and a suppleness of the body, who undertake to refine 
upon what nature has done for them, and, so, part 
with that which made every one pleased and at home, 
not knowing why, to take up with obtrusive graces 
and impertinent grimace; and, thus, they turn their 
manners into forms and dresses, instead of leaving 
them the mere representatives of a polite, well-ordered 
mind." 

''Very true," said my new acquaintance; ''and if 
the mind is well improved, and right feelings brought 
forward, what we call the manners will take care of 
themselves. Make it a child's main principle to love 
the truth and always hold to it, and he will have an 
open and manly decision of manner, which will clear 
his way for him wherever he goes. Give him a taste- 
ful mind, and there will be beautiful emanations from 
it playing about him, even on ordinary occasions. 



400 A LETTER FROM TOWN. 

Teach him that selfishness defeats its own purposes, 
and makes the most polite sometimes vulgar; that in 
common intercourse he is to be more mindful of 
others than of himself, that he is not to press hard 
his own tastes and opinions, till they give uneasiness; 
that it is best to find out the bent of another's feelings, 
and not cross it, except where it is at variance with 
the truth; that he is rather to talk upon what his com- 
panions are familiar with, than unfeelingly to parade 
before their ignorance a show of what he himself 
knows; that, unless some occasion calls for it, he is not 
to keep ahead of those he is with, instead of walking 
by their side; that his principal object should be to 
produce a good and happy state of things wherever 
he goes, and that in this way he will make sure his 
own satisfying enjoyments, without the mortifying 
sense of a selfish aim- — and you will do more, upon 
these few, simple principles, to make a thorough gen- 
tleman, than all the pedantry of polite education, than 
all the outside endeavours of the professors and schol- 
ars of elegant accomplishments could ever teach or 
comprehend." 

This may sound a little climacteric to you, my dear 
friend; but coming from a thoughtful man, past middle 
life, who had not lost his feelings with his hairs, it 
took hold of me from its simple earnestness; and more 
so, as I marked in his face the play of his feelings 
growing stronger and quicker as he went on, and a 
flush of excitement spreading gradually over his pale 
countenance. 

He paused and looked down for a moment, as if 
sensible that his zeal had led him into something like 
an harangue, and to take more to himself than a well- 
bred man should ordinarily do, especially when with 3. 



A LETTER FROM TOWN. 401 

stranger. The feeling and delicate embarrassment of 
his manner moved me a good deal, particularly when I 
considered that it was shown toward one younger than 
himself. 

More to relieve him, than from any wish to talk, 
(for I had much rather have listened to him,) I began 
saying something about the tiresome sameness of what 
is called high life in a city. He raised his head a 
little, and turning toward me with a smile, looked at 
me as if he thanked me. This put me off again from 
what I was about remarking, and I was never more 
glad in my life, than when I saw my friend, Thomson, 
coming in at the door to relieve me from my uneasy 
sensations. There was something very delightful in 
them too, notwithstanding; and when my friend in- 
troduced me to the stranger as an old and particular 
acquaintance of his, and 1 took his extended hand, we 
were better known to each other, than most of those 
who have lived next door neighbours for some dozen 
years. 

It was quite time to joirir the club. My new ac- 
quaintance, Mr. Thornton, turning out to be a mem- 
ber as well as my friend, we walked in sociably 
together. 

In my next, I hope to send you some account of 
the club; though this is quite uncertain, as the spirit 
of order bears as little rule over me at present as it 
does over the place I am in; besides, I may meet with 
something, if not more worthy of your attention, more. 
Iimusing, perhaps. Yours, 

A. B. 

26, 



MUSINGS. 



— "a steadfast seat 
Shall then be your's among the happy few 
Who dwell on earth, yet breathe empyreal air, 
Sons of the morning. — 

— He sate — and talked 

With winged messengers ; who daily brought 
To his small Island in the ethereal deep 
Tidings of joy and love. 

— then, my Spirit was entranced 
With joy exalted to beatitude ; 

The measure of my soul was filled with bliss, 
And holiest love ; as earth, sea, air, with light, 
With pomp, with glory, with magnificence." 

Wordsworth. 



Have we looked upon the earth so long, only to 
reckon how many men and beasts it can maintain, 
and to see to what account its timber can be turned, 
and to what uses its rocks and waters may be put.'* 
Do we, with Baillie Jarvie, think it a pity that so 
much good soil should lie waste under a useless lake, 
and set against the cost of draining the in-comings of 
the crops .^ Have we lived so many years in the world 
and been familiar with its affairs, only to part off men 
into professions and trades, and to tell the due pro- 
portions required to stock each.^ Must we for ever 
travel the straight-forward, turnpike road of business^ 



m 



MUSINGS. 40S 

and not be left to take the way that winds round the 
meadows, and leads us sociably by the doors of retired 
farms? Must all the hills be levelled, and hollows 
filled up, that we may go like draught-horses the dull 
and even road of labour, the easier and with the more 
speed? May we not sit awhile to cool and rest our- 
selves in the shade of some shut-in valley, with its 
talking rills, and fresh and silent water-plants, — or 
pass over the free and lit hill-tops, catching views of 
the broad, open country alive with the universal 
growth of things, and guarded with its band of moun- 
tains resting in the distance, like patriarchs of the 
earth? Must all we do and all we think about have 
reference to the useful, while that alone is considered 
useful which is tangible, present gain? Is it for food, 
and raiment, and shelter alone, that we came into the 
world? Do we talk of our souls, and live as if we, 
and all that surrounded us, were made up of nothing 
else but dull matter? Are the relations of life for our 
convenience merely, or has the fulfilling of their 
duties none but promised and distant rewards? 

Man has another and higher nature even here; 
and the spirit within him finds an answering spirit in 
every thing that grows, and affectionate relations not 
only with his fellow-man, but with the commonest 
things that lie scattered about the earth. 

To the man of fine feeling, and deep and delicate 
and creative thought, there is nothing in nature which 
appears only as so much substance and form, nor any 
connexions in life which do not reach beyond their 
immediate and obvious purposes. Our attachments 
to each other are not felt by him merely as habits of 
the mind given to it by the customs of life; nor does 
fae hold them to be only as the goods of this world> 



404 MUSINGS. 

and the loss of them as merely turning him forth an 
outcast from the social state; but they are a part of 
his joyous being, and to have them torn from him, is 
taking from his very nature. 

Life, indeed, with him, in all its connexions and 
concerns, has an ideal and spiritual character, which, 
while it loses nothing of the definiteness of reality, is 
for ever suggesting thoughts, taking new relations, 
and peopling and giving action to the imagination. 
All that the eye falls upon and all that touches the 
heart, run off into airy distance, and the regions into 
which the sight stretches, are alive and bright and 
beautiful with countless shapings and fair hues of the 
gladdened fancy. From kind acts and gentle words 
and fond looks there spring hosts many and glorious 
as Milton's angels; and heavenly deeds are done, 
and unearthly voices heard, and forms and faces, 
graceful and lovely as Uriel's, are seen in the noon- 
day sun. What would only have given pleasure for 
the time to another, or at most, be now and then 
called up in his memory, in the man of feeling and 
imagination, lays by its particular and short-lived and 
irregular nature, and puts on the garments of spiritual 
beings, and takes the everlasting nature of the soul. 
The ordinary acts which spring from the good will of 
social life, take up their dwelling within him and 
mingle with his sentiment, forming a little society in 
his mind, going on in harmony with its generous en- 
terprises, its friendly labours, and tasteful pursuits. 
They undergo a change, becoming a portion of him, 
making a part of his secret joy and melancholy, 
and wandering at large among his far-off thoughts. 
All that his mind falls in with, it sweeps along in its 
deep and swift and continuous flow, and bears onward 



MUSINGS. 405 

with the multitude, that fills its shoreless and living 
sea. 

So universal is this operation in such a man, and so 
instantly does it act upon whatever he is concerned 
about, that a double process is going on within him, 
and he lives, as it were, a two-fold life. Is he, for 
instance, talking with you about a North-west pas- 
sage, he is looking far off at the ice-islands, with their 
turreted castles and fairy towns, or at the penguin, 
at the southern pole, pecking the rotting seaweed on 
which she has lighted, or he is listening to her distant 
and lonely cry, within the cold and barren tracts of 
ice — yet all the while he reasons as ingeniously 
and wisely as you. His attachments do not grow 
about a changeless and tiring object; but be it filial 
reverence, Abraham is seen sitting at the door of his 
tent, and the earth is one green pasture for flocks and 
herds; or be it love, she who is dear to him is seen 
in a thousand imaginary changes of situation, and 
new incidents are happening, delighting his mind with 
all the distinctness and sincerity of truth. So that 
while he is in the midst of men, and doing his part in 
the afl^airs of the world, his spirit has called up a fairy 
vision, and he is walking in a lovely dream: — it is 
round about him in his sorrows for a consolation; and 
out of the gloom of his affliction he looks forth upon 
an horizon touched with a gentle, morning twilight, 
and growing brighter on his gaze. Through pain 
and poverty and the world's neglect, when men look 
cold upon him, and his friends are gone, he has where 
to rest a tired spirit, that others know not of, and 
healings for a wounded mind, which others can never 
feel. 

And who is of so hard a nature that he would deny 



406 MUSINGS. 

him these ? If there are assuagings for his spirit, 
which are never ministered to other men, it has tor- 
tures and griefs and a fearful melancholy, which need 
them more. He brought into the world passions deep 
and strong, senses tremulous and thrilling at every 
touch, feelings delicate and shy, yet affectionate and 
warm, and an ardent and romantic mind. He has 
dwelt upon the refinements and virtues of our nature, 
till they have almost become beauties sensible to the 
mortal eye, and to worship them he has thought could 
hardly be idolatry. 

And what does he find in the world? Perhaps, in 
all the multitude, he meets a mind or two which an- 
swers to his own; but through the crowd, where he 
looks for the free play of noble passions, he finds men 
eager after gain or vulgar distinctions, hardening the 
heart with avarice, or making it proud and reckless 
with ambition. Does he speak with an honest indig- 
nation against oppression and trick? He is met by 
loose doubts and shallow speculations, or teasing 
questions as to right and wrong. Are the weak to be 
defended, or strong opposed? One man has his place 
yet to reach, and another his to maintain, and why 
should they put all at stake ? Are others at work in a 
good cause ? They are so little scrupulous about means, 
so bustling and ostentatious and full of self, so wrapt 
about in solemn vanity, that he is ready to turn from 
them and their cause in disgust. There is so little 
of nature and sincerity — of ardor and sentiment of 
character — such a dulness of perception — such a 
want of that enthusiasm for all that is great and lovely 
and true, (which, while it makes us forgetful of our- 
selves, brings with it our highest enjoyments) such 
an offensive show and talk of factitious sensibility — 



MUSINGS. 407 

that the current of his feelings is checked — he turns 
away depressed and disappointed, and becomes shut up 
in himself; and he, whose mind is all emotion, and 
who loves with a depth of feeling that few souls have 
ever sounded, is pointed at, as he stands aloof from 
men, as a creature cold and motionless, selfish and 
reserved. 

But if manner too often goes for character, hard- 
learned rules for native taste, fastidiousness for refine- 
ment, ostentation for dignity, cunning for wisdom, 
timidity for prudence, and nervous affections for ten- 
derness of heart, — if the order of nature be so much 
reversed, and semblance so often takes precedence of 
truths yet it is not so in all things, nor wholly so in 
any. The cruel and ambitious have touches of pity 
and remorse, and good affections are mingled with our 
frailties. Amid the press of selfish aims, generous 
ardor is seen lighting up, and in the tumultuous and 
heedless bustle of the world, we here and there meet 
with considerate thought and quiet and deep affections. 
Patient endurance of sufferings, bold resistance of 
power, forgiveness of injuries, hard-tried and faithful 
friendship, and self-sacrificing love, are seen in beau- 
tiful relief over the flat uniformity of life, or stand out 
in steady and bright grandeur in the midst of the dark 
deeds of men. And then, again, the vices of our 
nature are sometimes revealed with a violence of 
passion and a terrible intellectual energy, which fasten 
on the imagination of a creative and high mind, while 
they call out opposing virtues to pass before it in 
visions of glory: — For '* there is a soul of goodness 
in things evil; " and the crimes of men have brought 
forth deeds of heroism and sustaining faith, that have 
made our rapt fancies but gatherings from the world 
in which we live. 



408 MUSINGS. 

And there are beautiful souls, too, in the world, to 
hold kindred with a man of a feeling and refined mind ; 
and there are delicate and warm and simple affections, 
that now and then meet him on his way, and enter 
silently into his heart like blessings. Here and there, 
on the road, go with him for a time some who call to 
mind the images of his soul, — a voice, or a look, is a 
remembrancer of past visions, and breaks out upon 
him like openings through the clouds; and the distant 
beings of his imagination seem walking by his side, 
and the changing and unsubstantial creatures of the 
brain put on body and life. In such moments his 
fancies are turned to realities, and over the real the 
lights of his mind shift and play ; his imagination shines 
out warm upon it, and it changes, and takes the fresh- 
ness of fairy life. 

When such an one turns away from men, and is 
left alone in silent communion with nature and his 
own thoughts, and there are no bonds on the move- 
ments of the feelings, and nothing on which he would 
shut his eyes, but God's own hand has made all 
before him as it is, he feels his spirit opening upon a 
new existence, becoming as broad as the sun and air, 
as various as the earth, over which it spreads itself, 
and touched with that love which God has imaged in 
all he has formed. His senses take a quicker life, 
and become one refined and exquisite emotion; and 
the etherealized body is made, as it were, a spirit in 
bliss. His soul grows stronger and more active within 
him, as he sees life intense and working throughout 
nature; and that which is passing away links itself 
with the eternal, when he finds new life beginning 
even with decay, and hastening to put forth in some 
other form of beauty, and become a sharer in some 



MUSINGS. 409 

new delight. His spirit is ever awake with happy 
sensations, and cheerful and innocent and easy 
thoughts. Soul and body are blending into one; the 
senses and thoughts mix in one delight; he sees a 
universe of order and beauty, and joy and life, of 
which he becomes a part, and finds himself carried 
along in the eternal going-on of nature. Sudden and 
short-lived passions of men take no hold upon him; 
for he has sat in holy thought by the roar and hurry 
of the stream, which has rushed on from the beginning 
of things; and he is quiet in the tumult ofthe multitude, 
for he has watched the tracery of leaves playing safely 
over the foam. 

The innocent face of nature gives him an open and 
fair mind; pain and death seem passing away, for all 
about him is cheerful and in its spring. His virtues 
are not taught him as lessons, but are shed upon him 
and enter into him like the light and warmth of the 
sun; and amidst the variety of the earth, he sees a 
fitness, which frees him from the formalities of rule, 
and lets him abroad, to find a pleasure in all things; 
and order becomes a simple feeling ofthe soul. 

Religion, to such an one, has thoughts and visions 
and sensations, tinged, as it were, with a holier and 
brighter light than falls on other men. The love and 
reverence of the Creator make their abode in his 
imagination, and he gathers about them earth and 
air and ideal worlds. His heart is made glad with 
the perfectness in the works of God, when he con- 
siders that even of the multitude of things that are 
growing up and decaying, and of those which have 
come and gone, on which the eye of man has never 
rested, each was as fair and complete as if made to 
live for ever for our instruction and delififht. 



410 MUSINGS. 

Freedom and order, and beauty and grandeur, are 
in accordance in his mind, and give largeness and 
height to his thoughts; he moves among the bright 
clouds; he wanders away into the measureless depths 
of the stars, and is touched by the fire with which 
God has lighted them — all that is made partakes of 
the eternal, and religion becomes a perpetual pleas- 
ure. 



A LETTER FROM TOWN. 



' Not moved a whit, 
Constant to lightness still ! " 
"You 're for mirth 
Or I mistake you much." 



The Old Law. 



" E 'en such a man, so faint, so spiritless, 
So dull, so dead in look, so wo-begone," — 
Henry IV. 



In the first letter which I wrote you from town, I 
spoke of our old friend's taking me with him to his club. 
As we entered late, and a good part of the mem- 
bers could be seen but dimly through the cigar-smoke, 
I shall put off a general description of their persons, 
till I get a view of them in a clear atmosphere. Be- 
sides, while it is fresh in my mind, I wish to give you 
the latter part of a dialogue, which was going on, as 
we entered, between a snug-built, well-dressed, fresh- 
looking man of about five and forty, and another of 
nearly the same age, I am told — but, apparently, ten 
years older — of a thin visage and spare frame, with 
an impatient hurry in his speech, followed by a 
whining drawl; and to set his figure off the better, I 
suppose, he was clad in a mixed-gray suit, with black 
buttons. He nestled about in his seat, with a fidgety 
motion, and there was a nervous twitching of the eye- 



412 A LETTER FROM TOWN. 

lids, and a restlessness in the eye, though he was all 
the while looking at one object, very much as folks do 
when repeating from memory. The first gentleman, 
who seemed to have most of the talk to himself, was 
going on thus, as we drew near them — 

** There is no telling how large a pack of troubles 
a man may have upon his shoulders at the end of life, 
who keeps it always open like an alms-basket, and 
has no hole at bottom to let out a little of what he 
takes in. He need not ape a lame leg or a broken 
back. If he keeps his wallet stufled with odd scraps 
of bad meat and mouldy bread, when he can get 
better, for the sake of groaning over his hard fare, he 
will go doubled and limping to his grave, in good 
earnest." 

'' A pleasant fellow, you, Tom, with a nosegay in 
your button-hole, and snuff between finger and thumb, 
who never found it too cold without-doors, nor too hot 
within. You go as gay as an ostrich, and with not 
a whit more thought neither." 

^\1 've done my part, Abraham, and it is my wife's 
duty to look at things at home, and to keep the chil- 
dren out of the fire, or cure them when they get in. 
Besides, I never saw any good comeof too much care 
of the brats, — it only makes them helpless. And if 
all 's at sixes and sevens at home, and my mate's voice 
and face grow sharp and angry, I come and take heart 
at the sound and sight of your clear voice and gay 
countenance, over a bottle of the best." 

Abraham did not much Uke this taunt at his com- 
plainings; and his cheek began to kindle and grow 
redder and redder in spots, the louder and longer Tom 
laughed. Torn seemed to care little for this, so it did 
but put a stop to the drone-pipe which Abraham was 



A LETTER FROM TOWN. 413 

said to play upon, whenever he came to the club to 
have a merry night of it. 

*' JVo surer cure for our troubles, Abraham," says 
he, "than to get into arousing passion; and you 
have not a better friend in the world than I, who am 
always helping you into one. Why, you would have 
gone all night like an ill-greased wheel, spoke follow- 
ing up and down after spoke to the melancholy creak- 
ing, hadn't I vexed you. Now, we shall see you in a 
fine whirl presently, striking fire out of every stone 
you hit against. Don't you remember how sad you 
were a half- score years ago, because the gout would n't 
carry ofi'your uncle; and when it did the business for 
him, and took you softly by the toe, only to tell you 
of it, how wo-begone you looked, just as if your mourn- 
ing suit was to be handed over to your man John, to 
appear respectably in at his master's funeral? Yet 
you got here to-night without halting; and if you 
do n't make your way home as quick as the rest 
of us, it will not be the gout that will hinder you.'' 

Abraham h;id three charges to answer to — his 
complaining disposition, his eagerness for his uncle's 
death, and an over-fondness for good wine. Now, 
whether it was his anger that made him take up the 
last word, as is generally the way with a man in a 
passion, or that the two first charges were not to be 
denied, Abraham chose to clear himself of the last, 
and to have his revenge on Tom, by railing against 
a weakness, which he himself was kept from by at 
least as great failings. He knew the cost of his liquor, 
andthat too much wine helped to rid him of his uncle, 
and Abraham was said to be both a miser and a cow- 
ard. 

'' Have you no shame in you, Tom, that you will 



414 A LETTER FROM TOWN. 

be talking of drinking ? Do n't you remember the 
snake-track you made back the very last night you 
were here? And by the going of your clapper, and 
the shine of your eye, you bid fair now to get home 
again the same way. When have you seen me make 
such a beast of myself as to hold up by my neighbour's 
knocker instead of my own? I set my children a 
better example, teach them to strive against tempta- 
tion, and to keep a watch upon any besetting sin. I 
tell them that life is a state of trial and affliction — 
that if they have riches and blessings to-day, they may 
be all gone to-morrow — that though they are now in 
health, sickness is nigh at hand, and that death may 
overtake them at noonday — that they must learn 
temperance in all things, and never forget they are in 
the midst of evils. But what good will it do to tell 
you this. You never will have forethought ; and though 
there is little else but pains and misfortunes in life, 
you go on as reckless of all, as if harm could never 
come to you." 

'' There you are at your saws again! I tell you 
what, father Abraham, he 's a fool who is always busy 
making troubles for himself, when there is no danger 
but what he will have enough gratis. I 've weathered 
more storms than will ever beat on your head, though 
I have not sat like an old crow foreboding them while 
the sun shines. To take you in your own way, I 
have not forgotten what I read when a boy, ' Sufficient 
for the day is the evil thereof My creed is, 'To 
enjoy is to obey.' And I can say more than can be 
said for most of you, I make my faith the rule of my 
conduct, and take care to act up to it. And if I do 
sometimes love my friends so much as to forget myself 
and be a little too merry with them, it stirs my bloody 



A LETTER FROM TOWN. 415 

and I am all the better for it the next day. I lose no 
time by it, for it is all done up at night; and if I am 
not quite right, my children will have a warning in 
me at home, and not be obliged to pull their neigh- 
bours' characters to pieces to mend their own with. 
Besides, it is as well to have a failing or two, to keep 
the world in good humour with one; for nothing puts 
people out more, than a man's being too good for 
them. And what would come of all my virtues, if 
they only made men enemies to me, and, so, to them- 
selves? 

'* You talk about my children. Why, man, do n't 
they owe their lives to me, and what 's more, don't I 
teach them how to enjoy life? Would you have me 
moan over them all day, till they were as long-visaged 
as saints at conventicle? Stout-hearted, full-blooded 
lads ! — and you would have them crawling along as 
meek and pale as a Philadelphia patient after a semi- 
weekly slop-bleeding ! Then again, there 's my wife: 
— but one purse between us and no questions asked. 
Rides or walks as she pleases; and not a word about 
cost." Here Abraham coloured. '' I 'm all atten- 
tion; see her at parties abroad, and dine with her at 
home — whenever there 's company. She orders 
what suits her, and is undisputed mistress of the 
household. I 'm always pleased to see her in spirits; 
and if affairs go wrong, and she 's in ill humour, I 
take care not to put any restraint upon her by being 
in the way. I was here an hour earlier than usual 
to-night because the servant let fall the tea-tray and 
broke half a dozen tea-cups, — and as I have missed 
my tea, thank you Mr. B. to fill my glass." 

While he twirled a light, silver-headed cane in his 
right hand, he reached out his glass with his left, and 



416 A LETTER FROM TOWN. 

I began filling it. At this critical moment the dry, 
and sallow visage of Abraham, caught my eye. 
Turned partly round, and leaning forward, contrary 
to his custom — for he seldom looked at the person 
he was talking with, — his eyes were fixed steadfastly 
upon the rattle-headed Tom, with that mixed expres- 
sion of pity and imploring, with which one gazes upon 
a man that is going to be hanged: — if Tom was just 
then to have been swung off, it could not have been 
more mournful. I was so intent upon the face of 
Abraham, that I forgot what I was about, till Tom, 
feeling the wine running over his hand, and moving 
suddenly, brought me to myself Before I could 
mutter an apology, he caught the direction of my eye, 
and turning towards Abraham, burst out into a loud 
laugh. It was not to be withstood. Tom had broken 
the enchantment; and in spite of good breeding and 
good feeling, there was an instant roar of laughter 
through the room. This was too much even for Abra- 
ham; he sprang upon his feet, uttering something' 
between a mutter and a curse, (he never dared swear 
out-right,) and twitching down his hat, which had 
grown nap-worn and round-edged through use, and 
at the same time seizing his long, slender, oak cane, 
with something like a threatening motion, he darted 
out of the room. 

As soon as he could speak, Tom cried out — '•' I told 
him, a little while ago, that I was the best friend he 
had in the world, and I shall always prove so. By 
putting him into such a rage, he is off without paying 
his share of the reckoning. There need be no mak- 
ing up between us, for he will no sooner remember 
this, than he will forgive me from the bottom of his 
heart. Poor fellow, I pity him. Nobody ever set 



A LETTER FROM TOWN. 417 

out with fairer prospects, or has had things more com- 
fortable about him; and yet he is the most forlorn 
being living. Didn't you hear him prose just now 
about his anxiety for his children ? — while all his aim 
is to see that they shall be no happier than himself; for 
he takes another's enjoyment as a reproach upon his 
own self-made misery. And as to his care about their 
worldly estate, it is all because he feels their posses- 
sions will be, in a sort, his even after death. For my 
part, I 'm content, when I die, to give up all my claims 
to those I leave behind me. And while I live, I 
mean to make them and myself as merry as we can 
know how to be." 

With a rap upon his box, and shaking the snuff 
from between his fingers, Tom ended his moral lec- 
ture; and with a well satisfied nod of the head took 
himself off to wind up the night at another club, 
with a hand at whist. 

The rest of the company soon went out, one after 
another, without any noise, like sparks upon burnt 
paper, leaving my old friend and me to finish the bot- 
tle. Without thinking of it, we at the same moment 
drew up to within a companionable distance of each 
other; and while carefully pouring a little, first into 
my glass and then into his, that we might share alike, 
till the bottle was drained, he began in that same com- 
posed manner and low voice which were familiar to 
me some years ago, by observing, that though Tom's 
last remarks might seem harsh and in the extreme to 
me, yet he feared there was too much truth in them. 

'* I knew Abraham," said he, *' when a child. He 

was then a spare lad, with a wrinkled brow, and weak, 

anxious voice. As he was feeble, his mother nursed 

him up with caudles and a tippet — bade him never 

27 



4^:8 A LETTER FROM TOWN. 

wet his feet, and taught him that it was a sin to soil 
his;clothes. Thinking him not fit to push his way in 
the world, and knowing that wealth stands one well in 
hand, who has little force of character or intellect, 
Ahraham was instructed, like other careful boys, to 
get himself a box to drop his money in, and never to 
spend his change foolishly on holydays. His love for 
every thing great and generous being destroyed by 
hi^ iattention being taken up with little things; seeing 
another so much concerned about him, making him 
overrate his own importance; and being continually 
anxious about his money and health, soon centring all 
his thoughts and affections in self; and, with all his 
pains-taking, finding others happier than he, it was 
not long before he became a discontented, ill-natured 
man. 

" The other never had the headach in his life; and 
fair weather or foul, it mattered little with him. Con- 
stitutionally happy, all that he could, he turned to 
enjoyment, and what he could not, he let alone. So 
much of his happiness came from his health, that he 
never cared for the more abstract pleasures of the 
mind; and with that triumphant, joyous feeling which 
flows from full blood, he began with looking down 
upon feeble constitutions, and ended with a contempt 
for those who suffered under the real afflictions of 
life. From the same cause, he apparently takes to 
those who, like himself, are fond of merriment; and 
really supposes himself to be a kind-hearted, friendly 
fellow, when in truth he cares nothing about others^ 
only just so far as they serve to make up a part of his 
own pleasures, and to help on the game of life. Tom 
is as selfish as Abraham, but not so annoying, because 
easy-natured. You may think I should allow some 



A LETTER FROM TOWN. 41 9i 

praise to this quality of character. There is no need 
of it. Men will always give it its full due; and as 
for its opposite, if it does not make its own punish- 
ment, the world will lay it on with no sparing hand. 

Here our wine was gone, and the last candle was 
burning in the socket. We took our hats, and laying 
our reckoning on the table, walked quietly home to 
my friend's house. Yours, 

A. B, 



KEAN'S ACTING. 



" For doubtless, that indeed according to art is most eloquent, which turns 
and approaches nearest to nature, from whence it came." 



Milton. 



' Prof est diversions ! cannot these escape ? 

We ransack tombs for pastime ; from the dust 

Call up the sleeping hero 3 bid him tread 

The scene for our amusement : How like Gods 

We sit ; and, wrapt in immortality, 

Shed generous tears on wretches born to die j 

Their fate deploring, to forget our own ! " 



YouwG. 



In looking over, for the present edition, the following 
article, published when Kean was in this country, the 
lines which I have quoted from Young were brought 
forcibly to my mind. There was something painful 
to me in my own words, which speak of him as living 
and acting, for the curtain is, indeed, dropped now; 
and many, who heard and saw him then, have gone to 
their graves, too. It is startling to have our thoughts 
follow into eternity, a man of genius and fiery pas- 
sions; for there needs must be an intensity of Life 
there, which will make this world's existence seem to 
us, as we look back upon it, little more than a dream 
of life — a beginning to be. 

What a sad reflection upon our nature it is, that an 



kean's acting. , 421 

amusement so intellectual in its character, as seeing a 
play is, and capable of being made to administer so 
much to our moral state, should be so tainted with im- 
purity — that the theatre should be a place where con- 
gregate the most licentious appetites and passions, and 
from which is breathed out so foul an atmosphere. 
Such as it is, I am now done with it. I would sooner 
forego the intellectual pleasure I might receive from 
another Kean,(were there ever to be another Kean,) 
than by yielding to it, give countenance to vice, by 
going where infecting and open corruption sits, side 
by side, with the seemly. 

It is not to read a lecture to others, but that I 
might not appear to approve of what I disapprove, 
that I have written these few lines; preferring to do 
so, to introducing any essential change into the main 
article, for the sake of adapting it to my present views. 



I HAD scarcely thought of the theatre for several 
years, when Kean arrived in this country; and it 
was more from curiosity than from any other mo- 
tive, that I went to see, for the first time, the great 
actor of the age. I was soon lost to the recollection 
of being in a theatre, or looking upon a grand display 
of the ''mimic art." The simplicity, earnestness, 
and sincerity of his acting made me forgetful of the 
fiction, and bore me away with the power of reality 
and truth. If this be acting, said I, as I returned 
home, I may as well make the theatre my school, and 
henceforward study nature at second hand. 

How can I describe one who is nearly as versatile 
and almost as full of beauties as nature itself — who 
grows upon us the more we are acquainted with him, 



42i kean's acting. 

and makes us sensible that the first time we saw him in 
any part, however much he may have moved us, we 
had but a vague and poor apprehension of the many 
excellencies of his acting. We cease to consider it 
as a mere amusement : It is a great intellectual feast ; 
and he who goes to it with a disposition and capacity 
to relish it, will receive from it more nourishment for 
his mind, than he would be likely to in many other 
ways in four-fold the time. Our faculties are opened 
and enlivened by it; our reflections and recollections 
are of an elevated kind; and the very voice which is 
sounding in our ears long after we have left him, 
creates an inward harmony which is for our good. 

Kean, in truth, stands very much in that relation 
to other players whom we have seen, that Shakspeare 
does to other dramatists. One player is called clas- 
sical; another makes fine points here, and another 
there. Kean makes more fine points than all of them 
together; but, in him, these are only little prominen- 
ces, showing their bright heads above a beautifully 
undulated surface. A constant change is going on in 
him, partaking of the nature of the varying scenes he 
is passing through, and the many thoughts and feel- 
ings which are shifting within him. 

In a clear autumnal day we may see, here and there, 
a deep white cloud shining with metallic brightness 
against a blue sky, and now and then a dark pine 
swinging its top in the wind, with the melancholy 
sound of the sea; but who can note the shifting and 
untiring play of the leaves of the wood, and their 
passing hues, when each one seems a living thing 
full of delight, and vain of its gaudy attire? A sound, 
too, of universal harmony is in our ears, and a wide- 
/Spread beauty before our eyes, which we cannot de* 



kean's acting. 423 

fine ; yet a joy is in our hearts. Our delight increases 
in these, day after day, the longer we give ourselves 
to them, till at last we become, as it were, a part of 
the existence without us. So it is with natural cha- 
racters. They grow upon us imperceptibly, till we 
become fast bound up in them, we scarce know when 
or how. So it will fare with the actor who is deeply 
filled with nature, and is perpetually throwing off her 
beautiful evanescences. Instead of becoming tired of 
him, as we do, after a time, of others, he will go on, 
giving something which will be new to the observing 
mind; and will keep the feelings alive, because their 
action will be natural. I have no doubt that, except- 
ing those who go to a play as children look into a 
show-box, to admire and exclaim at distorted figures, 
and raw, unharmonious colours, there is no man of a 
moderately warm temperament, and with a tolerable 
share of insight into human nature, who would not find 
his interest in Kean increasing with a study of him. It 
is very possible that the excitement would in some de- 
gree lessen, but there would be a quieter delight, in- 
stead of it, stealing upon him, as he became familiar 
with the character of his acting. ♦ 

The versatility in his playing is striking. He 
seems not the same being, taking upon him at one 
time the character of Richard, at another that of 
Hamlet; but the two characters appear before you as 
distinct individuals, who had never known nor heard 
of each other. So completely does he become the 
character he is to represent, that we have sometimes 
thought it a reason why he was not universally better 
liked here, in Richard; and that because the player 
did not make himself a little more visible, he must 
needs bear a share of our hate toward the cruel king. 



424 kean's acting. 

And this may the more be the case, as his construc- 
tion of the character, whether right or wrong, creates 
in us an unmixed dislike of Richard, till the anguish 
of his mind makes him the object of pity; from which 
moment to the close, Kean is allowed to play the part 
better than any one has before him. 

In his highest wrought passion, when every limb 
and muscle are alive and quivering, and his gestures 
hurried and violent, nothing appears ranted or over- 
acted; because he makes us feel, that with all this, 
there is something still within him vainly struggling 
for utterance. The very breaking and harshness of 
his voice in these parts, though upon the whole it 
were better otherwise, help to this impression upon 
us, and make up in a good degree for the defect. 

Though he is on the very verge of truth in his pas- 
sionate parts, he does not pass into extravagance; but 
runs along the dizzy edge of the roaring and beating 
sea, with feet as sure as we walk our parlours. We 
feel that he is safe, for some preternatural spirit up- 
holds him as it hurries him onward; and while all is 
uptorn and tossing in the whirl of the passions, we 
see that there#is a power and order over the whole. 

A man has feelings sometimes which can only be 
breathed out; there is no utterance for them in words. 
I had hardly written this when the terrible and indis- 
tinct, '* Ha! " with which Kean makes Lear hail 
Cornwall and Regan, as they enter, in the fourth 
scene of the second act, came to my mind. That cry 
seemed at the time to take me up, and sweep me 
along in its wild swell. No description in the world 
could give a tolerably clear notion of it; it must be 
formed, as well as it may be, from what has just been 
said of its effect. 



kean's acting. 425 

Kean's playing is frequently giving instances of 
various, inarticulate sounds — the throttled struggle 
of rage, and the choking of grief — the broken laugh 
of extreme suffering, when the mind is ready to de- 
liver itself over to an insane joy — the utterance of 
over-full love, which cannot, and would not speak in 
express words — and that of wildering grief, which 
blanks all the faculties of man. 

No other player whom I have heard has attempted 
these, except now and then; and should any one 
have made the trial in the various ways in which 
Kean gives them, no doubt he would have failed. 
Kean thrills us with them, as if they were wrung from 
him in his agony. They have no appearance of study 
or artifice. The truth is, that the labour of a mind of 
his genius constitutes its existence and delight. It 
is not like the toil of ordinary men at their task-work. 
What shows effort in them, comes from him with the 
freedom and force of nature. 

Some object to the frequent use of such sounds; 
and to others they are quite shocking. But those who 
permit themselves to consider that there are really 
violent passions in man's nature, and that they utter 
themselves a little differently from our ordinary feel- 
ings, understand and feel their language, as they 
speak to us in Kean. Probably no actor ever con- 
ceived passion v/ith the intenseness and life that he 
does. It seems to enter into him and possess him, as 
evil spirits possessed men of old. It is curious to ob- 
serve how some, who have sat very contentedly year 
after year, and called the face-making which they 
have seen, expression, and the stage-stride, dignity, 
and the noisy declamation, and all the rhodomontade 
of acting, energy and passion, complain that Kean is 



426 kean's acting. 

apt to be extravagant; when in truth he seems to be 
little more than a simple personation of the feeling or 
passion to be expressed at the time. 

It has been so common a saying, that Lear is the 
most difficult of all characters to personate, that we 
had taken it for granted no man could play it so as to 
satisfy us. Perhaps it is the hardest to represent. 
Yet the part which has generally been supposed the 
the most difficult, the insanity of Lear, is scarcely 
more so than the choleric old king. Inefficient rage 
is almost always ridiculous; and an old man, with a 
broken down body and a mind falling in pieces from 
the violence of its uncontrolled passions, is in constant 
danger of exciting, along with our pity, a feeling of 
contempt. It is a chance matter to which we are 
moved. And this it is which makes the opening of 
Lear so difficult. 

We may as well notice here the objection which 
some make to the abrupt violence with which Kean 
begins in Lear. If this is a fault, it is Shakspeare, 
and not Kean, who is to blame. For we have no 
doubt that he has conceived it according to his author. 
Perhaps, however, the mistake lies in this case, where 
it does in most others — with those who put themselves 
into the seat of judgment to pass upon greater men. 

In most instances, Shakspeare has given us the 
gradual growth of a passion, with such little accom- 
paniments as agree with it, and go to make up the 
whole man. In Lear, his object being to represent 
the beginning and course of insanity, he has properly 
enough gone but a little back of it, and introduced to 
us an old man of good feelings, but one who had liv- 
ed without any true principle of conduct, and whose 
ungoverned passions had grown strong with age, and 



kean's acting. 427 

were ready, upon any disappointment, to make ship- 
wreck of an intellect always weak. To bring this 
about, he begins with an abruptness rather unusual; 
and the old king rushes in before us, with all his 
passions at their height, and tearing him like fiends. 

Kean gives this as soon as a fit occasion offers it- 
self. Had he put more of melancholy and depression, 
and less of rage into the character, we should have 
been very much puzzled at his so suddenly going 
mad. It would have required the change to have 
been slower; and besides, his insanity must have been 
of another kind. It must have been monotonous and 
complaining, instead of continually varying; at one 
time full of grief, at another playful, and then wild as 
the winds that roared about him, and fiery and sharp 
as the lightning that shot by him. The truth with 
which he conceived this, was not finer than his exe- 
cution of it. Not for an instant, in his utmost violence, 
did he suffer the imbecility of the old man's anger to 
touch upon the ludicrous; when nothing but the most 
just conception and feeling of character could have 
saved him from it. 

It has been said that Lear was a study for any one 
who would make himself acquainted with the workings 
of an insane mind. There is no doubt of it. Nor is 
it less true, that the acting of Kean was a complete 
embodying of the these working. His eye, when his 
senses are first forsaking him, giving a questioning 
look at what he saw, as if all before him was under- 
going a strange and bewildering change which con- 
fused his brain — the wandering, lost motions of his 
hands, which seemed feeling for something familiar to 
them, on which they might take hold and be assured 
of a safe reality — the under monotone of his voice, 



428 kean's acting. 

as if he was questioning his own being, and all which 
surrounded him — the continuous, but slight oscillat- 
ing motion of the body — all these expressed, with 
fearful truth, the dreamy state of a mind fast unset- 
tling, and making vain and weak efforts to find its 
way back to its wonted reason. There was a childish, 
feeble gladness in the eye, and a half piteous smile 
about the mouth at times, which one could scarce 
look upon without shedding tears. As the derange- 
ment increased upon him, his eye lost its notice of 
what surrounded him, wandering over everything as 
if he saw it not, and fastening upon the creatures of 
his crazed brain. The helpless and delighted fond- 
ness with which he clings to Edgar as an insane 
brother, is another instance of the justness of Kean's 
conceptions. Nor does he lose the air of insanity, 
even in the fine moralizing parts, and where he in- 
veighs against the corruptions of the world: There is 
a madness even in his reason. 

The violent and immediate changes of the passions 
in Lear, so difficult to manage without offending us, 
are given by Kean with a spirit and with a fitness to 
nature which we had hardly imagined possible. These 
are equally well done both before and after he loses 
his reason. The most difficult scene, in this respect, 
is the last interview between Lear and his daughters, 
Goneril and Regan — (and how wonderfully does 
Kean carry it through! ) — the scene which ends with 
the horrid shout and cry with which he runs out mad 
from their presence, as if his very brain had taken 
fire. 

The last scene which we are allowed to have of 

Shakspeare's Lear, for the simply pathetic, was played 

' by Kean with unmatched power. We sink down 



kean's acting. 429 

helpless under the oppressive grief. It lies like a 
dead weight upon our bosoms. We are denied even 
the relief of tears; and are thankful for the startling 
shudder that seizes us when he kneels to his daughter 
in the deploring weakness of his crazed grief. 

It is lamentable that Kean should not be allowed 
to show his unequalled powers in the last scene of 
Lear, as Shakspeare has written it; and that this 
mighty work of genius should be profaned by the 
miserable, mawkish sort of by-play of Edgar's and 
Cordelia's loves: Nothing can surpass the imper- 
tinence of the man who made the change, but the 
folly of those who sanctioned it. 

When I began, I had no other intention than that 
of giving a few general impressions made upon me 
by Kean's acting; but, falling accidentally upon his 
Lear, I have been led into more particulars than I 
was aware of It is only to take these as some of the 
instances of his powers in Lear, and then to think of 
him as not inferior in his other characters, and a 
slight notion may be formed of the effect of Kean's 
playing upon those who understand and like him. 
Neither this, nor all I could say, would reach his 
great and various powers. 

Kean is never behind his author; but stands for- 
ward the living representative of the character he has 
drawn. When he is not playing in Shakspeare, he 
fills up, where his author is wanting, and when in 
Shakspeare, he gives not only what is set down, but 
whatever the situation and circumstances attendant 
upon the being he personates, would naturally call 
forth. He seems, at the time, to have possessed him- 
self of Shakspeare's imagination, and to have given it 



430 kean's acting. 

body and form. Read any scene of Shakspeare — 
for instance, the last of Lear that is played, and see 
how few words are there set down, and then remem- 
ber how Kean fills it out with varied and multiplied 
expressions and circumstances, and the truth of this 
remark will be obvious at once. There are few men, 
I believe, let them have studied the plays of Shaks- 
peare ever so attentively, who can see Kean in them 
without confessing that he has helped them almost as 
much to a true conception of the author, as their own 
labours had done for them. 

It is not easy to say in what character Kean plays 
best. He so fits himself to each in turn, that if the 
effect he produces at onetime, is less than at another, 
it is because of some inferiority in stage-effect in the 
character. Othello is probably the greatest character 
for stage-effect; and Kean has an uninterrupted power 
over us, in playing it. When he commands, we are 
awed; when his face is all sensitive with love, and 
love thrills in his soft tones, all that our imaginations 
had pictured to us is realized. His jealousy, his hate, 
his fixed purposes, are terrific and deadly; and the 
groans wrung from him in his grief, have the pathos 
and anguish of Esau's, when he stood before his old, 
blind father, and sent up '^ an exceeding bitter cry." 
Again, in Richard, how does he hurry forward to 
his object, sweeping away all between him and it! 
The world and its affairs are nothing to him, till he 
gains his end. He is all life, and action, and haste — 
he fills ever^ part of the stage, and seems to do all 
that is done. 

I have before said that his voice is harsh and break- 
ing in his high tones, in his rage, but that this defect 
is of little consequence in such places. Nor is it well 



kean's acting. 431 

suited to the more declamatory parts. This, again, 
is scarce worth considering; for how very little is 
there of mere declamation in good English plays! 
But it is one of the finest voices in the world for all 
the passions and feelings which can be uttered in th^ 
middle and lower tones. In Lear — 

" If you have poison for me, I will drink it." 

And again, 

" You do me wrong to take me o' tlie grave. 
Thou art a soul in bliss." 

Why should I cite passages? Can any man open 
upon the scene in which these are contained, without 
Kean's piteous looks and tones being present to him? 
And does not the mere remembrance of them, as he 
reads, bring tears into his eyes? Yet, once more, in 
Othello — 

" Had it pleased heaven 
To try me with affliction," &c. 

In the passage beginning with — 

" O now for ever 
Farewell the tranquil mind," • 

there was *' a mysterious confluence of sounds " pass- 
ing off into infinite distance, and every thought and 
feeling within him seemed travelling with them. 

How very graceful he is in Othello. It is not a 
practised, educated grace, but the ''unbought grace" 
of his genius, uttering itself in its beauty and grandeur 
in each movement of the outward man. When he 
says to lago so touchingly, *' Leave me, leave me, 
lago," and turning from him, walks to the back of the 
stage, raising his hands, and bringing them down upon 
his head, with clasped fingers, and stands thus with 



432 kean's acting. 

his back to us, there is a grace and an imposing 
grandeur in his figure which we gaze on with admira- 
tion. 

Talking of these things in Kean, is something like 
reading the *' Beauties of Shakspeare; " for he is as 
good in his subordinate, as in his great parts. But 
he must be content to share with other men of genius, 
and think himself fortunate if one in a hundred sees 
his lesser beauties, and marks the truth and delicacy 
of his under playing. For instance; when he has no 
share in the action going on, he is not busy in putting 
himself into attitudes to draw attention, but stands or 
sits in a simple posture, like one with an engaged 
mind. His countenance is in a state of ordinary re- 
pose, with only a slight, general expression of the 
character of his thoughts; for this is all the face shows, 
when the mind is taken up in silence with its own re- 
flections. It does not assume marked or violent ex- 
pressions, as in soliloquy. When a man gives utter- 
ance to his thoughts, though alone, the charmed rest 
of the body is broken; he speaks in his gestures too, 
and the countenance is put into a sympathizing action. 

I was first struck with this in his Hamlet; for the 
deep and quiet interest, so marked in Hamlet, made 
the justness of Kean's placing, in this respect, the 
more obvious. 

Since then, I have observed him attentively, and 
have found the same true acting in his other charac- 
ters. 

This right conception of situation and its general 
effect, seems to require almost as much genius as his 
conceptions of his characters. He deserves praise 
for it; for there is so much of the subtilty of nature 
in it, if I may so speak, that while a very few are able 



kean's acting. 433 

from his help to put themselves into the situation, and 
admire the justness of his acting in it, the rest, both 
those who like him upon the whole, as well as those 
who profess to see little that is good in him, will be 
very apt to let it pass by them, without observing it. 

Like most men, however, Kean receives a partial 
reward, at least, for his sacrifice of the praise of the 
many, to what he thinks the truth. For when he passes 
from the state of natural repose, even into that of gen- 
tle motion and ordinary discourse, he is at once filled 
with a spirit and life which he makes every one feel 
who is not armour proof against him. This helps to 
the sparkling brightness and warmth of his playing; 
the grand secret of which, like that of colours in a 
picture, lies in a just contrast. We can all speculate 
concerning the general rules upon this; but when the 
man of genius gives us their results, how few are 
there who can trace them out with an observant eye, 
or look with a full pleasure. upon the grand whole. 
Perhaps this very beauty in Kean has helped to an 
opinion, which, no doubt, is sometimes true, that he 
is too sharp and abrupt. For I well remember, while 
once looking at a picture in which the shadow of a 
mountain fell, in strong outline, upon a stream, I over- 
heard some quite sensible people expressing their 
wonder that the artist should have made the water of 
two colours, seeing it was all one and the same thing. 

Instances of Kean's keeping of situations were very 
striking in the opening of the trial scene in the Iron 
Chest, and in Hamlet, when the father's ghost tells 
the story of his death. 

The determined composure to which he is bent up 
in the first, must be present with every one who saW 
him. And, though from my immediate purpose, shall 
28 



434 kean's acting. 

I pass by the startling and appalling change, when 
madness seized upon his brain, with the deadly swift- 
ness 'arid power of a fanged monster? Wonderfully as 
this last part was played, we cannot well imagine how 
much the previous calm, and the suddenness of the 
unlooked for change from it added to the terror of the 
scene. — The temple stood fixed on its foundations; 
the earthquake shook it, and it was a heap. — Is this 
one of Kean's violent contrasts? 

While Kean listened, in Hamlet, to the father's 
story, the entire man was absorbed in deep attention, 
mingled with a tempered awe. His posture was quite 
simple, with a slight inclination forward. The spirit 
was the spirit of his father whom he had loved and 
reverenced, and who was to that moment ever present 
in his thoughts. The first superstitious terror at meet- 
ing him had passed off. The account of his father's 
appearance given him by Horatio and the watch, and 
his having followed him some distance, had, in a 
degree familiarized him to the sight, and he stood 
before us in the stillness of one who was to hear, then 
or never, what was to be told, but without that eager 
reaching forward which other players give, and which 
would be right, perhaps, in any character but that of 
Hamlet, who always connects, with the present, the 
past and what is to come, and mingles reflection with 
his immediate feelings, however deep. 

As an instance of Kean 's familiar, and, if I may be 
allowed the term, domestic acting, the first scene in 
the fourth act of his Sir Giles Overreach, may be 
taken. His manner at meeting Lovell, and through 
the conversation with him, the way in which he turns 
his chair, and leans upon it, were all as easy and 
natural as they could have been in real life, had Sir 



kean's acting. 435 

Giles been actually existing, and engaged, at that mo- 
ment, in conversation in LoveH's room. 

It is in these things, scarcely less than in the more 
prominent parts of his playing, that Kean shows him- 
self the great actor. He must always make a deep 
impression; but to suppose the world at large capable 
of a right estimate of his various powers, would be 
forming a judgment against every-day proof The 
gradual manner in which the character of his playing 
has opened upon me, satisfies me that in acting, as in 
every thing else, however great may be the first eflfect 
of genius upon us, we come slowly, and through study, 
to a perception of its minute beauties and fine char- 
acteristics; and that, after all, the greater part of men 
seldom get beyond the first vague and general impres- 
sion. 

As there must needs go a modicum of fault-finding 
along with commendation, it may be proper to remark, 
that Kean plays his hands too much at times, and 
moves about the dress over his breast and neck too 
frequently in his hurried and impatient passages, — 
that he does not always adhere with suflnicient accuracy 
to the received readings of Shakspeare, and that the 
effect would be greater upon the whole, were he to 
be more sparing of sudden changes from violent voice 
and gesticulation to a low conversation tone and 
subdued manner. 

His frequent use of these in Sir Giles Overreach is 
with great effect, for Sir Giles is playing his part; so, 
too, in Lear, for Lear's passions are gusty and shifting; 
but, in the main, it is a kind of playing too marked 
and striking to bear frequent repetition, and had bet- 
ter sometimes be spared, where, considered alone, it 
might be properly enough used, for the sake of bring-> 
ing it in at some other place with greater eifect, 



436 kean's acting. 

It is well to speak of these defects, for though the 
little faults of genius, in themselves considered, but 
slightly affect those who can enter into its true char- 
acter, yet such persons are made impatient at the 
thought, that an opportunity is given those to carp 
who know not how to commend. 

Though I have taken up a good deal of room, I 
must end without speaking of many things which oc- 
cur to me. Some will be of the opinion that I have 
already said enough. Thinking of Kean as I do, I 
could not honestly have said less; for I hold it to be 
a low and wicked thing to keep back from merit of 
any kind its due, — and with Steele, that '* there is 
something wonderful in the narrowness of those minds 
which can be pleased, and be barren of bounty to 
those who please them." 

Although the self-important, out of self-concern, give 
praise sparingly, and the mean measure theirs by 
their likings or dislikings of a man, and the good even 
are often slow to allow the talents of the faulty their 
due, lest they bring the evil into repute, yet it is the 
wiser as well as the honester course, not to take away 
from an excellence, because it neighbours upon a 
fault, nor to disparage another with a view to our own 
name, nor to rest our character for discernment upon 
the promptings of an unkind heart. Where God has 
not feared to bestow great powers, we may not fear 
giving them their due; nor need we be parsimonious 
of commendation, as if there were but a certain quan- 
tity for distribution, and our liberality would be to 
our loss; nor should we hold it safe to detract from 
another's merit, as if we could always keep the world 
blind; lest we live to see him, whom we disparaged, 
praised; and whom we hated, loved. 



kean's acting. 437 

Whatever be his failings, give every man a full 
and ready commendation for that in which he excels; 
it will do good to our own hearts, while it cheers his. 
Nor will it bring our judgment into question with the 
discerning; for strong enthusiasm for what is great 
does not argue such an unhappy want of discrimina- 
tion, as that measured and cold approval, which is 
bestowed alike upon men of mediocrity, and upon 
those of gifted minds. 



DOMESTIC LIFE. 



O5 friendly to the best pursuits of man, 
Friendly to thought, to virtue, and to peace. 
Domestic life. — 

COWPER. 



It is for a short part of life only that the world is a 
wonder and delight to us, and its events so many causes 
of admiration and joy. The mist of morning soon 
breaks into little wreaths, and is lost in the air; and 
the objects which it drest in new beauties, are found 
to be things of our common notice. It passes off 
from the earth, and the fairy sea is swallowed up, and 
the green islands, scattered far and wide over it, are 
again turned into tall trees and mountain brushwood. 

In early life we are for ever giving objects the hue 
that best pleases us, and shaping and enlarging them 
as suits our imagination. Rut the time comes when 
we must look upon the unsightly without changing it, 
and when the hardness of reality makes us feel that 
there are things not to be moulded to our fancies. 
Men and their actions were figured to our minds in 
extremes. Giants and dwarfs peopled the world and 
filled it with deeds of heroic virtue and desperate vice. 
All that we looked forward to kept our spirits alive, 
and our imagination found food for our desires. At 



DOMESTIC LIFE. 439 

one time, we were vainglorious at our victories over 
magnificent crimes ; at another, bearing up firmly 
against oppression, with the honest and tried. 

We come at length into the world, and find men 
too busy about their own aflfairs, to make those of 
another their concern, and too carefiil of themselves, 
to go a tilting for another's rights. Even the bad 
have a mixture in their character which takes away 
its poetic eflTect, and we at last settle down in the dull 
conviction, that we are never to meet with entire and 
splendid virtue, or unmixed vice. With this sudden 
check upon our feelings, we may live in the world 
disappointed and estranged from it; or become like 
others, cold and wise, putting on timidity for caution, 
and selfishness for prudence; be guarded in speech, 
and slow in conduct, seeing the wrong, yet afraid of 
condemning it. Or, shaking ourselves loose from 
this hypocrisy of life, we may let go with it the virtues 
it mimics, and despising the solemn ostent and for- 
malities of society, may break through its restraints, 
and set its decencies at defiance. Or, too wise to be 
vicious, and too knowing to be moved, we may look 
with complacent unconcern upon what we hold to be 
the errors of the world; forbearing to shake the faith 
of the religious, because it has its social uses, or to 
point out the fallacies of moral codes, because they 
serve to the same end. 

The virtuous tendencies of our youth might in this 
way run to vice, and our early feelings grow cold, 
were there not in us affections of a quieter nature, 
resting on objects simple and near at hand, receiving 
more happiness from one being than from a thousand, 
and kindling a light within us, making one spot a 
perpetual brightness, and secretly cheering us through 



440 DOMESTIC LIFE. 

life. These affections are our domestic attachments, 
which are refreshed every morning, and grow daily 
under a gentle and kindly warmth, making a com- 
panionship for what is lonely, at the same time leav- 
ing it all the distinctness and intenseness of our 
highest solitary joys. We may suffer all the hopes 
and expectations which shot up wild and disorderly 
in our young imaginations, to live about our homes ; 
and leaving them their savour and bright hues, may sort 
each with its kind, and hedge them round with the close 
and binding growth of family attachments. It is true, 
that this reality has a narrower range, and an evener 
surface, than the ideal; yet there is a rest, and an as- 
sured and virtuous gladness in it, which make an 
harmonious union of our feelings and our fancies. 

Home gives a certain serenity to the mind, so that 
every thing is well marked, and sparkling in a clear 
atmosphere, and the lesser beauties are brought out 
to rejoice in the pure glow which floats over and be- 
neath them from the earth and sky. In this state of 
mind afflictions come to us chastened; and if the 
wrongs of the world cross us in our door-path we put 
them aside without anger. Vices are every where 
about us, not to lure us away, nor make us morose, 
but to remind us of our frailty, and keep down our 
pride. We are put into a right relation with the 
world; neither holding it in proud scorn, like the soli- 
tary man, nor being carried along by shifting and hur- 
ried feelings, and vague and careless notions of things, 
like the world's man. We do not take novelty for 
improvement, or set up vogue for a rule of conduct; 
neither do we despair, as if all great virtues had de- 
parted with the years gone by, though we see new 



DOMESTIC LIFE. 441 

vices, frailties and follies taking growth in the very- 
light which is spreading through the earth. 

Our safest way of coming into communion with 
mankind is through our own household. For there 
our sorrow and regret at the failings of the bad is in 
proportion to our love, while our familiar inter- 
course with the good has a secretly assimilating in- 
fluence upon our characters. The domestic man has 
an independence of thought which puts him at ease 
in society, and a cheerfulness and benevolence of feel- 
ing which seems to ray out from him, and to diffuse 
a pleasurable sense over those near him like a soft, 
bright day. As domestic life strengthens a man's 
virtue, so does it help to a sound judgment, and a 
right balancing of things, and gives an integrity and 
propriety to the whole character. God, in his good- 
ness, has ordained that virtue should make its own 
enjoyment, and that wherever a vice or frailty is 
rooted out, something should spring up to be a beauty 
and delight to the mind. But a man of a character 
rightly cast, has pleasures at home, which, though 
fitted to his highest nature, are common to him as his 
daily food. He moves about his house under a con- 
tinued sense of them, and is happy almost without 
heeding it. 

Women have been called angels, in love-tales and 
sonnets, till we have almost learned to think of angels 
as little better than women. Yet a man who knows 
a woman thoroughly, and loves her truly — and there 
are women who may be so known and loved — will 
find, after a few years, that his relish for the grosser 
pleasures is lessened, and that he has grown into a 
fondness for the intellectual and refined without an 



442 DOMESTIC LIFE. 

effort, and almost unawares. He has been led on to 
virtue through his pleasures; and the delights of the 
eye, and the gentle play of that passion which is the 
most inward and romantic in our nature, and which 
keeps much of its character amidst the concerns of 
life, have held him in a kind of spiritualized existence: 
he shares his very being with one who, a creature of 
this world, and with something of the world's frailties, is 

yet a Spirit still, and bright, 

With something of an angel light. ^ 

Woi'ds worth. 

With all the sincerity of a companionship of feeling, 
cares, sorrows, and enjoyments, her presence is as 
the presence of a purer being, and there is that in her 
nature which seems to bring him nearer to a better 
world. She is, as it were, linked to angels, and in 
his exalted moments, he feels himself held by the 
same tie. 

In the ordinary affairs of life, a woman has a greater 
influence over those near her than a man. While our 
feelings are, for the most part, as retired as anchorites, 
hers are in constant play before us. We hear them 
in her varying voice; we see them in the beautiful 
and harmonious undulations of her movements, in the 
quick shifting hues of her face, in her eye, glad and 
bright, then fond and suffused : Her whole frame is 
alive and active with what is at her heart, and all the 
outward form speaks. She seems of a finer mould 
than we, and cast in a form of beauty, which, like all 
beauty, acts with a moral influence upon our hearts; 
and as she moves about us, we feel a movement 
within, which rises and spreads gently over us, har- 
monizing us with her own. — And can any man listen 



DOMESTIC LIFE. 443 

to this? Can his eye rest upon this, day after day, 
and he not be touched, and be made better? 

The dignity of a woman has its peculiar character: 
it awes more than that of man. His is more physical, 
bearing itself up with an energy of courage which we 
may brave, or a strength which we may struggle 
against : he is his own avenger, and we may stand 
the brunt. A woman's has nothing of this force in it: 
it is of a higher quality, too delicate for mortal touch. 

There is a propriety, too, in a woman's mind, a 
kind of instinctive judgment, which leads us along 
in a right way, and that so gently, and by such a con- 
tinuous run of little circumstances, that we are hardly 
conscious we are not going on in our own course. 
She helps to cure our weaknesses better than rnan, 
because she sees them quicker, because we are more 
ready to show her those which are hid, and because 
advice comes from her without its air of superiority, 
and reproof without its harshness. 

Men who feel deeply, show little of their deepest 
feelings to each other. But, besides the close union 
and common interests and concerns between husband 
and wife, a woman seems to be a creature peculiarly 
ordained for a man to lay open his heart to, and share 
its joys with, and to be a comforter to his griefs. Her 
voice soothes us like music; she is our light in gloom 
and our sun in a cold world. In time of affliction she 
does not come to us like man, who lays by, for the hour, 
his proper nature to give us relief She ministers to 
us with a hand so gentle, and speaks in a voice so 
calm and kind, and her very being is so much in all 
she does, that she seems at the moment as one born 
only for the healing of our sorrows, and for a rest to our 



444 DOMESTIC LIFE. 

cares. And the man to whom such a being is sent 
for comfort and support, must be sadly hard and de- 
praved, if he does not feel his inward disturbance sink- 
ing away, and a quietude stealing through his frame. 

The relations of parents and children are the holiest 
in our lives; and there are no pleasures, or cares, or 
thoughts, connected with this world, which reminds 
us so soon of another. The helpless infancy of chil- 
dren sets our own death before us, when they will be 
left to a world to which we would not trust ourselves; 
and the thought of the character they may take in 
after life, brings with it the question, what awaits 
them in another. Though there is a melancholy in 
this, its seriousness has a religious tendency. And 
the responsibility which a man has laid himself under, 
begets a resoluteness of character, a sense that this 
world was not made to idle in, and a feeling of dignity 
that he is acting for a great end. How heavily does 
onejoil who' labours only for himself; and how is he 
cast down by the thought of what a worthless crea- 
ture it is all for ! 

We have heard of the sameness of domestic life. 
He must have a dull head and little heart who grows 
weary of it. A man who moralizes feelingly, and has 
a proneness to see a beauty and fitness in all God's 
works, may find daily food for his mind even in an 
infant. In its innocent sleep, when it seems like some 
blessed thing dropped from the clouds, with tints so 
delicate, and with its peaceful breathing, we can 
hardly think of it as of mortal mould, it looks so like 
a pure spirit made visible for our delight. 

'^ Heaven lies about us in our infancy,'' says Words- 
worth. And who of us, that is not too good to be con- 



DOMESTIC LIFE. 445 

scious of his own vices, who has not felt rebuked and 
humbled under the clear and open countenance of a 
child? — who that has not felt his impurities foul upon 
him in the presence of a sinless child? These feelings 
make the best lesson that can be taught a man ; and tell 
him in a way, which all else he has read or heard, never 
could, how paltry is all the show of intellect compared 
with a pure and good heart. He that will humble 
himself and go to a child for instruction, will come 
away a wiser man. 

If children can make us wiser, they surely can 
make us better. There is no one more to be envied 
than a goodnatured man watching the workings of 
children's minds, or overlooking their play. Their 
eagerness, curious about every thing, making out by 
a quick imagination what they see but a part of — 
their fanciful combinations and magic inventions, cre- 
ating out of ordinary circumstances, and the common 
things which surround them, strange events and little 
ideal worlds, and these all working in mystery to form 
matured thought, is study enough for the most acute 
minds, and should teach us, also, not too officiously 
to regulate what we so little understand. The still 
musing and deep abstraction in which they sometimes 
sit, affect us as a playful mockery of older heads. 
These little philosophers have no foolish system, with 
all its pride and jargon, confusing their brains. 
Theirs is the natural movement of the soul, intense 
with new life, and busy after truth, working to some 
purpose, though without a noise. 

When children are lying about seemingly idle and 
dull, we, who have become case-hardened by time 
and satiety, forget that they are all sensation, that 



446 DOMESTIC LIFE. 

their outstretched bodies are drinking in from the 
common sun and air, that every sound is taken note 
of by the ear, that every floating shadow and passing 
form come and touch at the sleepy eye, and that the 
little circumstances and the material world about them 
make their best school, and will be the instructers 
and formers of their characters for life. 

And it is delightful to look on and see how busily 
the whole acts, with its countless parts fitted to each 
other, and moving in harmony. There are none of 
us who have stolen softly behind a child when labour- 
ing in a sunny corner, digging a lilliputian well, or 
fencing in a six-inch barn-yard, and listened to his 
soliloquies, and his dialogues with some imaginary be- 
ing, without our hearts being touched by it. Nor have 
%ve observed the flush which crossed his face when 
finding himself betrayed, without seeing in it the deli- 
cacy and propriety of the after man. 

A man may have many vices upon him, and have 
walked long in a bad course, yet if he has a love of 
children, and can take pleasure in their talk and play, 
there is something still left in him to act upon — some- 
thing which can love simplicity and truth. I have seen 
one in whom some low vice had become a habit, make 
himself the plaything of a set of riotous children, with 
as much delight in his countenance as if nothing but 
goodness had ever been expressed in it; and have felt 
as much of kindness and sympathy toward him, as I 
have of revolting toward another, who has gone 
through life with all due propriety, with a cold and 
supercilious bearing towards children, which makes 
them shrinking and still. I have known one like the 
latter, attempt, with uncouth condescension, to court 
an openhearted child, who would draw back with an 



DOMESTIC LIFE. 44'7 

instinctive aversion; and I have felt as if there v^^ere 
a curse upon him. Better to be driven out from 
among men, than to be disliked of children. 

When mj heart has been full of joy and good-wiH 
at the thought of the blessings of home, and at the 
remembrance that the little w^hich is right within me 
was learned there — when I have reflected upon the 
nature of my enjoyments abroad, and cast them up, 
and found them so few, and have then turned home 
again, and have seen that its pleasures were my best 
lessons of virtue, and as countleg.a-tas good, I have 
thought that I could talk of it for ever. It is not so. 
Though the feeling of home never wearies, because 
kind oflices, and the thousand little ways in which 
home attachments are always uttering themselves, 
keep it fresh and full in its course; yet the feeling it- 
self, and that which feeds it, have a simplicity and 
unity of character of which little is to be told, though 
they are always with us. 

It may be thought that something should be said of 
the influence of domestic associations on a child, and 
on its filial , attachments. I w^ould not overcast the 
serenity I now feel by calling up the days when I was a 
boy; when the spirits were unbroken, and the heart pure, 
when the past was unheeded, and the future bright; 
I would not do this, to be pained with all that has 
gone amiss in my later days — to remember how 
poorly 1 have borne the ills of life, and how thankless 
has been my spirit for its good. 

It is needless to talk of the afllictions of domestic 
life. Those which Providence sends, come for our 
good, and their best consolations are found in the 
abode into which they enter. Of the troubles which 
we make to ourselves, we have no right to complain. 



448 DOMESTIC LIFE. 

Ill-sorted marriages will hardly bring agreement, and 
from those of convenience will hardly come love. 
But when the deep and tranquil enjoyment, the light 
and playful cheerfulness, the exaltation of feeling, and 
the clear calm of thought, which belong to those who 
know each other entirely, and have by nature some- 
thing of the romance of love in them, are all told, 
then will I speak of the troubles of home. 



NOTES. 



^.6. stanza 14, and Preface to • The First Edition of the 
Poems.' — In that passage in Lycidas, which fills us with such 
awe , Milton says : 

'• the great Vision of the guarded mount, 

Looks towards Namancos and Bayona's hold." 
Although the cases are not quite parallel, I hope I shall not 
be thought extravagant in calling upon old Merlin, a being 
supposed to be endowed with supernatural powers, to 
^ Hear the shout /rom Spain.' 
On the above passage in Milton, see Todd's edition, notes, and 
among the Preliminary Notes, the interesting one, — ^^ Mount 
St. Michael." ^ 

Preface to ^ The First Edition of the Poems.' — The felicity 
and trath of Lord Byron's expression in relation to the octo- 
syllabic verse, (quoted by me in the last paragraph but one, 
of the above Preface,) left that expression impressed upon my 
mind after the exception made by him was so far forgotten, that 
when reminded of it by some newspaper notice of my poems, 
I knew not where 1- turn to in Byron, for the passage. Hav- 
ip since found it, 1 give it entire. — ^' Scott alone, of the pre- 
. generation, has hitherto completely triumphed over the 
ital facihiy of the octo-syllabic verse ; and this is not the least 
victory of his fertile and mighty genius." 

After this opinion from the great modern master of English 
verse, respecting that wonderful man, it may be thought that 
\i would have become i le better to have altogether omitted, at 
this time, the passage in the Preface. And I would gladly have 
done so, could I have done so honestly, after my oversight, and 
while my convictions remained unchanged. The newspaper 
notice to which I have referred, and which the passage in Byron 
29 



450 NOTES. , '^>. 

has kept in my mind, insinuates, if I rightly recollect, that 
I used so much of Byron as made for my opinion, and pur- 
posely omitted the rest. Had the writer of that article known 
me, he would not have said this j and not knowing me, he should 
not have presumed it. 

As this is a question of mere common fair-dealing with the 
reader, I need make no apology for the length of the note. 

P. 60. It has been suggested to me that my allusion 
the story of ^ Cobbler Stout,' may not be understood by those 
born since my nursery days. Were it not too long, I would 
insert it here, for the benefit of such persons. The effect which 
the Cobbler's treatment had upon the Little Egg-woman, (the 
nature of which treatment my allusion will sufficiently explain,) 
in leading her to question herself upon her personal identity, the 
means which she took to solve so important a question, and the 
melancholy conclusion to which these brought her, that she was 
not herself J or, to use her own words, 

^ Sure,' .... * this is none of I ! ' — 
all serve to render it not only a tale of deep interest to the 
general reader, but also one well worthy the study of the acute 
controvertists in high matters, of the present day. 






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